Descent
by Everyone Everywhere
Summary: A slow-paced Jimlock/Sheriarty fic. After discovering that Watson has moved on, Sherlock makes a choice that changes him. Queue Moriarty, ever curious and ever interested in Mr Holmes. Where will they go? Who will they become? What is to become of the questionable existence of Sherlock's heart? Simple writing, not flowery. Written by Lazarus-James and The-Angry-Blob. No smut yet.
1. Chapter 1

A ghost of a smile danced across his lips. The building was cold, even without the air conditioner on. His hands traced the dusty window sill. There wasn't enough moisture in the air, he noticed. It made him feel a little... dry.

His lips quirked up. Ah, the ceremony was starting now. He leaned forward a little, almost out of anticipation. He could see Watson, standing there, fixing his tie. He looked horribly nervous, even with the shy smile on his face. Strange little being.

The bride walked down the aisle. The scene continued, just how every wedding did. A kiss. An applause. Some cake went around. The man behind the window watched quietly. No one would see him. He was on the tenth floor, for God's sake. But he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He smiled.

Perhaps he had another play mate. He looked down. Ah, not a new one. The old one had come back. He grinned. It seemed Sherlock had not yet noticed him. Perfect.

...

The hairs on Sherlock's neck stood up on their own accord and he knew without a doubt someone was watching him. He ignored it, however, his sight firmly glued on the blushing couple who were now exiting the cathedral, holding hands tightly, afraid to let go of each other and their new-found companionship.

As Sherlock watched them leave, he felt a pain inside him, something snap. His mouth felt dry, as he finally tore his gaze away from the happy pair and the hundreds of people who had gathered to celebrate their... Sherlock coughed... their love.

He should've expected this. Should've known. He was a genius, for God's sake. But no. He hadn't guessed that this might occur. That he might never be able to return home. Never be able to stomp back into their apartment covered in mud and dirt and have John simply prepare him tea. No. That was not his anymore. And it would never be again.

Sherlock's heart twisted under his breast, as he gritted his teeth to fight against the emotional pain. John was no longer his. John thought he was dead. John had... John had moved on. Sherlock felt physically sick at the thought, even though he'd seen the evidence only moments before. He leaned against the wall beside him, his feelings collapsing inside him and dug his face into his hands.

Sherlock tried to analyse the emotions, tried to understand why he was dealing with inside himself, but it didn't help. His understanding of humans and their nuances had never been applied to himself. His throat itched and he wasn't sure what he was feeling anymore. Loss, definitely. Depression, very likely. Loneliness, most probably. Broken hearted, yes, of - Sherlock froze and then denied the thought. No. Not that. He wasn't feeling that. But an ache inside himself throbbed in contradiction to his rejection of this idea.

...

He licked his lips and grinned. Oh the poor baby. He almost felt bad for the boy. Well, almost. He felt his sadistic side come in. Perhaps, he could just add a little bit more pain? He was certainly up to it. He lifted his fingers up and looked at them. The dust had collected on the perfectly manicured tips. His eyes softened, just a bit. He felt a little bit like dust. Collecting and settling over everything like suffocation. It felt good.

To say that Jim Moriarty had disappeared from the world was a grand mistake. On the contrary, he had taken the opportunity to do a bit of golf. Quite a lovely sport, once you get the hang of it. But he was still active in places you wouldn't believe. He'd taken the chance to visit Rio de Janeiro. Quite warm and sunny. Much better than boring old London. He'd personally sorted out a few... misunderstandings. With Sebastian's help of course.

He sighed. He'd had a spent a little too much time here. The air was making him feel a little queasy. And besides, it was nearly tea time. He felt his stomach growl a little. The thought of tea and scones didn't seem to be too bad right about now. He gave one last look at Sherlock. Hmm, poor bloke. He'd have to play with the fellow later it seemed. He stretched his arms behind him, before skipping his way down the stair case of the empty building.

A rather old tune chimed and echoed. The man picked up his phone with a smile. "Jim Moriarty. Hi!~"

...

Sherlock dry-retched, nauseated. Everything was wrong. He swallowed back his emotions and took a deep breath. Everything was going to be better. He just had too... There was no solution. Nothing. He couldn't hurt John. He couldn't go home. And it hurt to breathe. His mind-palace was falling apart, the foundation, John, gone and it had begun to crumble.

Nothing made sense. Hurt pulsed through his veins and coiled in his heart, his stomach felt as if it were being punched repeatedly and the urge to throw up was almost impossible to resist. John was gone. Sherlock needed to move on.

But he couldn't.

Memories kept playing through his mind. All of the memories, both sweet and bitter, they all seemed to mock him. Laugh at him. He wanted them gone, they made it far too painful to think. He attempted to delete them, but they refused. Like a computer virus, rooted into the very motherboard John had managed to ingrain himself into the very fibre of Sherlock's being.

Unable to forget John, Sherlock knew what he needed to do. If John knew, he would've punched him in the face. But John would never know. And he would never care again. The thought made Sherlock lock in his decision. He had to do this. To forget.

...

He turned his head up and looked at the sky. Oh, it might rain soon. Shame. He stepped into his car and pulled out his phone. Tch, no new messages. The bad thing about pretending to be dead was that he wasn't Mr Popularity anymore. The rain started drizzling half way through the car ride. It seemed God was taking a nice long piss on Sherlock. Jim smiled. Oh, everything seemed to perfect.

The car stopped in front of Cardiff. Somehow, the building looked better, with the rain pouring down and the people running around. The driver looked in the mirror at Jim, but didn't say anything. He often stopped here. It made him think a little, but drivers don't ask questions. An exasperated sigh escaped Jim's lips. "Well? Keep driving please~"

The car continued in the pouring rain. Phone calls came in eventually. The consulting criminal was a busy man after all. Things to do, people to kill, it was all part of his daily routine. It was all part of Jim Moriarty's routine. He sighed and stretched his arms, before lying down and turning off his phone. "I'm going to take a little nap. Keep driving, alright?"

...

It was the rain that awoke Sherlock, pattering cold large droplets onto his face. But it was the several stings in his arm that brought him to attention. His mind felt like it was on fire. And his stomach curled in distaste. A dying buzz thrummed through him, one that Sherlock instantly knew.

Heroin shots. He'd been taking drugs.

He blinked, and staggered upwards trying to find his bearings. Nothing looked familiar. It was a nondescript alley way, with trash littered everywhere. He could be anywhere. Sherlock checked his arms, trying to gauge how long it had been since he'd shot up. The wounds were only slightly scabbed over. And there were many of them. He was briefly astounded he hadn't over-dosed. With his mind woozy and his palace still out of commission, Sherlock limped forward.

A sharp pain throbbed through his foot as stepped. The detective's brow furrowed, and he looked down. Wedged into the bottom of his boot was a jagged piece of glass, about an inch in. Shocked, but mostly analytical, Sherlock hopped to one of the walls nearby and leaned on it, lifting his foot up to see.

Blood had caked around it and for a second Sherlock thought about how to dress it. His mind then became staggeringly clear. He needed a doctor.

He needed John.

Bile rose in his throat as he recalled why he'd done what he had, the pain was unbearable; hitting him like a train of glass, fragmenting as it smashed into him and filling him with shards of absolute despair. It was as if something were tearing him up from the inside out, clawing into his heart and playing around with his entrails. Unable to think clearly, he patted his coat, searching desperately. His mind was reeling, diving, dipping. It was going to self-destruct.

Luck!

With shaking hands, Sherlock plunged the syringe into his arm and pressed. 5 minutes. It took only 5 minutes.

5 painful minutes of memories that he would give anything to forget. He closed his eyes, pulling the injection out and letting it drop from his fingers. He could almost feel it pulsing through his blood stream. It was beginning to work.

He closed his eyes, seeing a hazy figure in his imagination telling him to stop, "John..."

But then the silhouette was gone and so were the memories. Sherlock's thoughts faded as the numbness took over.

...

He yawned and stretched his arms, sitting up. Where was he? Oh yes, in the car. He sighed and looked out his window. The rain was still pouring. The scenery was boring and dreary. Oh, the rain got boring so quickly. He simply wasn't in the mood for depressing thoughts! The car passed by an alleyway. Oh, what was that? "Oh stop the car will you! I'm trying to see something.

The driver did as told, and sure enough, someone had passed out in the alleyway. A very special someone with an ugly scarf and a bad haircut and cheekbones made of porcelain. A dangerous grin danced across his face. Well this was a pleasant surprise. "Bring the bloke in, will you?"

The driver stepped out of the car and brought the body in, setting it up so that it was sitting up properly next to Mr Moriarty. The sleeping man slumped over, and his damp little head fell onto Jim's lap. D'aww, wasn't that adorable? The man looked through the sleeping man's pockets. Hmm, nothing but a dead cell phone and a few injections of heroin. Oh that wouldn't do. He rolled down the windows and threw them out.

The car drove on.

...

When Sherlock came to, his memory fired up almost instantly and he knew that he'd slept away the usefulness of the drug. Everything flooded back to him in a flurry of thoughts and feelings and this time he couldn't keep them down. He retched, the contents of a meal he didn't remember eating, ending up all over the floor. His eyes watered and he shivered uncontrollably.

For a second, he didn't want to do anything. He just wanted to sit there and die. Sit there alone and die, because there was no more John to go home to. There was nothing he had left. No one would know him. Mycroft would, of course, but... it wasn't the same.

Wiping away the bits of half-digested food from his face, Sherlock eyed the room with an analytical glare. It was then he realised he had moved locations again. This time... he was inside. A room. Nicely decorated, but nothing superfluous. Rather... quaint, in fact.

The tingle of the beginning of an addiction flourished at the back of Sherlock's mind, and he subconsciously searched for more of the syringes. There wasn't any. He appeared to be lacking a phone as well. His body felt like it'd been hit by a car and run over twice. There were bruises and aches in places he didn't know existed, and he knew nearly all the ligaments and muscles of the human body.

It was the raising of the hair on his neck which made him aware that someone was watching him. Even though he was still partially groggy, he managed to make out a figure of a man.

"John?"

...

Mr Moriarty was drinking his morning cup of tea. Black with two sugars, as always. It wasn't very long after the first sip when the butler came in. "Sir, I believe that I must inform you, that Mr Holmes has come to."

James grinned. "Oh, splendid!" He left his cup on the coffee table, before happily skipping off to see his little toy.

He stood behind the glass, watching the man stumble around groggily. Ah, it was so cute! It almost made him squeal with joy. Oh my, did he just say 'John?' Oh, it's like one of those weird television dramas everyone always talks about. Watching the man wince and squint was quite entertaining. And for James... just the slightest bit orgasmic.

"Sorry sweet pea, but I'm not John."

The voice struck Sherlock like a fifty-pound mallet, knocking the breath from him and making his eyes widen ever so slightly. After gaining an understanding of the situation, Sherlock cleared his throat, "I suppose I should be thanking you for pulling me off the streets then, Moriarty."

He smiled dryly. Was the fun over already? Tis' a shame. He shrugged. "Oh don't worry about. Would you like some tea?" He reached and pushed a button, and spoke into the intercom. "Tea please Mr Moran! " There was a considerable amount of grumbling on the other end of the line. He opened the door and stepped in. "How long are you going to spend on the floor, Mr Holmes?"

He definitely needed to come up with a pet name. Sherly? Locky? Mr Holmes? Oh well, that would be thought of later.

"I quite like it down here," Sherlock replied, sniffing, "Unless you've a better offer?"

His brain whirred away, filing details, deducing. James Moriarty; clean (impeccable, really, not a speck of dirt, surely a perfectionist like myself), suited (expensive, tailored, careful about his looks, may be useful later for blackmail), evergreen smell (cologne, strange, possibly not of his own collection; suggests a prior meeting), the smile (empty eyes, mind speeding on, this hasn't been planned, not a kidnapping, spur of the moment?) and then Sherlock's eyes rested momentarily on the intercom (Moran was somewhere in this building, not safe.)

He scanned the room for a second. Only one door; behind Moriarty. Chance of escape... slim.

He tilted his head and smiled. "Well perhaps maybe later. Sebastian is bringing us tea right this moment."

He liked this angle better, it seemed. Much more to be seen. His pants were soiled, like they hadn't been ironed in quite a long time. His hair had grown out, and he showed many other little signs of living on the streets for quite a long while. Pff, hobo. Judging by the clothing, he'd been staying with the homeless network. His face had sunken, and his eyes darted around too quickly. He was more suspicious than he was before. Perhaps the fear of being seen, or perhaps... he was hiding something not quite legal?

He smiled. "Come outside would you? I brought in a lovely batch of Chinese tea recently, so we'll be having a little of that, if you don't mind."

"Drugged, I suspect?" Sherlock asked with a smile, standing and brushing off a layer of dust, "And it'll be my pleasure."

Now really, if he smiled anymore, his face might break. Might. "Oh Sherly, you." Oh yes, Sherly was definitely the right nickname for him. He opened the door. "Come on now, slowpoke. Tea can't be kept waiting all day."

Sherlock nodded. This situation was all types of odd, but then again, nothing involving Moriarty was particularly normal. The consulting detective (Or was he really that anymore? He wondered to himself) exited the open door, the whiff of hot tea suddenly activating Sherlock's dormant hunger.

For a second he almost doubled over with starved cramps, but straightened up and cleared his throat, "Any food to accompany such a treat then, Moriarty?"

D'aww, he almost giggled. From the way he was standing, it was obvious little Sherly was having cramps. His knees were pointing inward, his fists slightly clenched, and his voice just the tiniest bit harder... Yup, definitely in pain. He reached down and pushed the button again. "Sebastian, would you mind telling the butler to prepare us some lunch as well?"

Lunch? Sherlock mused, must be midday. No clear windows to see the sun, no accurate guess. He bowed his head at Moriarty, "Thank you for that. I'm feeling... peckish."

As they walked the silence began to seep into Sherlock and he wondered why it was such a strange, but familiar quietness. When the realisation hit him, he almost fell over in shock. It was... companionable silence? No. Not possible. He shook his head mentally and turned his attention to Moriarty's strides. Long, relaxed, with a bit of a roll at the end of his steps, as if something had cheered him up. Curious, Sherlock thought.

Moriarty started to hum along as he walked. Darn this building for being so large. Oh well, he liked the quiet. Wait. What? He almost stopped in his steps. Almost. Perhaps Sherlock had seen that?

He kept walking on. Okay, listen carefully. Sherlock steps were uneven. The heroin addiction had affected his motor skills clearly. He kept that for note: he could use that to his advantage later. Breathing was shallow, but steady.

Sherlock's eyes indeed noticed the waver in Moriarty's gait and he filed it in. Something had taken the man off-balance for a moment. But what? He mused over it for a second, but then pushed it to the back of his accessible mind-palace for later examination. His mind-palace was still mostly out of commission, the larger parts with data that he could connect with usually weren't really open yet, but new rooms were still be able to be made and new information could still be added.

His information about Moriarty seemed to be building by the second. He wondered if his nemesis's report on himself was as well. There could've been no way for Moriarty to have not seen his obvious drug-use, even the blind would've been able to notice. Sherlock blinked for a second, suddenly recalling the glass which had pierced his foot. He didn't even feel an echo of pain... just a strange numbness.

_Ahh. They have me on painkillers_, Sherlock acknowledged as his gaze drifted to his foot which changed the way he was walking._ This was not fun. But it was interesting and it beat... well, it beat thinking of things that were best not thought of. Like John_. The thought struck Sherlock like a lightning bolt, travelling from his mind straight through his heart and into the ground.

_No, I mustn't think of him_, Sherlock demanded of himself, feeling physically shaken, _I need to find something else. I must move on_. The addiction tickled at his mind, reminding him, soon, it needed to be fed soon. Sherlock blinked, making up his mind, _Drugs... drugs cannot be the answer. I need to stop them. I need to... I need to move on from John. He is happy without me. _Sherlock's mouth felt particularly dry as they finally reached their destination, as shown by Moriarty's halt. _I need to focus on the situation at hand if I want to come out of this alive... Do I want to come out of this alive? I have... I have nothing else... Maybe... Drugs were the answer? Sweet oblivion? I... No. He swatted death away like an annoying fly, making up his mind. _His rival was still alive and his mission was not over._ As long as Moriarty still lives I have something to live for._

The dining room, was surprisingly _massive. _The actual building was hidden away from view, deep underground. Not in Britain of course. Jim's eye travelled back to Sherlock for a moment. The effects of the sleeping drug were still there. His feet were still wobbling, but not as much as before. Best be to not tell the poor man they weren't anywhere near his beloved JAWN.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand. Moriarty sat at the head of the table and laid his napkin down neatly on his lap. A butler came in, and not a moment too soon, bringing in a light hearted lunch. Oh yum. Jim looked at Sherlock. "Well? Aren't you going to sit down?"

Sherlock smiled slightly, that flicker of actual amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth, "Oh, I'd be delighted to."

Moriarty, dare Sherlock think, was actually beginning to appear... kind? Sherlock found the thought hilarious, hence the brief, tiny and genuine flicker of happiness. Afterwards, he blinked in possible shock. He hadn't smiled truthfully in... in many years and of all people, Moriarty had warranted this reaction. It begged an in-depth analysis, but Sherlock didn't have the time, each of his seconds occupied by processing Moriarty's expressions and movements, as well as their surroundings.

The detective wondered if he was already drugged with something else, but he couldn't find any tell-tales signs apart from his drowsiness and the numbness of the painkillers. It was... curious. Utterly, utterly curious and Sherlock had no way of explanation. While he had researched Jim Moriarty with something close to obsession years before, he'd never paused to realise just what Moriarty did in his spare time.

Did they suffer the same hate of boredom? The same irritation for dull things? Moriarty had once said they were the same person, but Sherlock had never bothered to think about the comment, considering it something that Moriarty had mentioned off-hand to imbalance Sherlock's thoughts. But now he thought on it... perhaps they had more things in common that Sherlock would ever care to admit.

Sherlock took a chair opposing Moriarty, crossing a leg over his right and leaning back into the chair, trying to ignore the food, but his stomach raged within him, demanding food, "Chinese tea, you said? Where from in China?"

Moriarty took a sip. He set the cup down with a click against the saucer. A half smile flashed across his face as he licked his lips. The tea was bitter sweet, and addictive in the strangest of ways. He'd never really bothered learning how to pronounce it. Besides, he only had one type of Eastern tea he liked.

His eyes wandered over Sherlock. Poor boy, trying to conceal his hunger like that. This was just too amusing. His hands were clasped on his lap, a seemingly casual gesture, but they were pressed against his stomach in an effort to calm his own hunger. Well, if Sherly was going to starve himself, Jim wasn't going to stop him. He put on a face of tell-tale thought.

"Err, I think it was somewhere near the south, close to Tibet? The people are quite lovely really, but a bit strange if you ask me." Truth be told, it wasn't the usual place people buy tea from, but then again, it wasn't your usual cup of tea.

He picked up a biscuit and nommed at it heart fully. It was the kind with strawberry jam inside and a little hole on top to see in. He finished it with in a moment, and picked up another one.

Sherlock watched Moriarty then leaned forward to take his own cup, gracefully taking a sip. The tea was flavourful, flowery, but not overly so and it lingered on his tongue, even as he took a breath. Rather delightful, actually. Refreshing, if anything.

His hands crept forward to take one of the sandwiches the cooks had prepared, and slowly, he consumed it, bit by bit, trying to relish the flavour even though his body demanded he just stuff the whole thing in his mouth and dive for the rest of the plate, ensuring Moriarty wouldn't take any of his precious food. Years of living on the street had ingrained this survival technique in him and it was taking more than a normal amount of effort to refuse to curtail to this instinct.

Moriarty watched with amusement from behind his cup. The pain was so evident on Sherlock's face, even _he_ was getting a bit embarrassed. He put his cup down and laughed a bit. "Oh help yourself Sherly."

He picked up another biscuit and took a bite, almost teasingly in front of Sherlock's face. His tongue darted out and licked away the crumbs from the corners of his lips. He popped the rest of the biscuit in his mouth. He has always been a strawberry person. It was sweet, almost too much so. Not that he minded. He had quite a craving for sweets anyway. He picked up a little sandwich and tore off a bit with his hands, popping it in his mouth. A bit of jam was left on his lips.

Sherlock's almost obsessive compulsive disorder instantly noticed the speck of red, stark against the criminal's pink lips; it was wrong, out of place. The poor detective couldn't tear his eyes away from the offending substance and he cleared his throat, coughing into his hand, as he tapped his own lip to signal where the material was, "Saving that for later, Moriarty?"

He pulled another sandwich slice towards him, this time devouring the thing in a single bite, reaching for another instantly.

"Eeeeh, not really."

He messily stuck his tongue and got the offending material. Oh Lordy, that was yummy. He watched Sherlock hungrily devour his way through the plate of sandwiches. He must either be very, very hungry or just have an unusually obsessive taste for tuna. Maybe both. Who doesn't like tuna? He nommed at another biscuit delightfully, followed by a sip of his tea.

When Sherlock finally felt content, his stomach beginning to bulge, he swapped his attention to the jam biscuits and picked one up, nibbling on it with relish. These were actually quite delicious and they made a perfect match for the flowery tea that he sipped at occasionally.

"So. Moriarty, I see the rumours of your death have been vastly over-exaggerated," Sherlock commented as he finished his tea and poured another cup from the Asian stylised pot. The small symbols on the side giving it a more natural and real feel.

Moriarty poured himself another (or rather, a third) cup as well, from his own pot, seeing as he'd been drinking much more than Sherlock. He shrugged. "Well, mine wasn't quite nearly as famous as yours. I was just the slightest bit shocked to see you'd made the front page instead of me."

He'd picked up another biscuit, though this was flower shaped and covered with blackberry jam. He finished that, but instead of reaching for another one, he set his cup down on the china and looked at Sherlock. "So let's exchange. I already know how you avoided them taking your pulse, the old tennis ball under the arm trick. But how'd you stop your brain from getting bashed in? There was quite a lot of blood after all."

"How about you tell me how you survived first?" Sherlock retorted, irritated that his secretive plan had already been partially figured out, "Better, yet... tell me why you wanted to live. Wasn't the whole point of our game to prove to each other than neither of us was afraid of death?"

As the detective asked these questions, even more occurred to him, he took occasional breaks to drink some tea, "Also, if your network is so damn complete, why didn't you know I was alive beforehand? Why... why now? Is this just another game? Are we to bet our lives again?"

He smiled. "I asked first Sherly." He looked at Sherlock, with a rather... knowing gaze. Of course, he knew the answers to most of those questions, and probably more that were floating around Sherlock's mind. He crossed legs over each other and set his arms to rest of the sides of his chair.

He played the part of villain quite well.

Sherlock mentioned exactly what was on Moriarty's mind, "You play villainous rather well, you know. Can I ask a personal question? What _made_ you choose this side?"

He sighed and shrugged. "This side? Well, when you're dead, you can sneak up on people rather easily I suppose." He'd let Sherlock decide what that meant. I mean, come on, he was the world's consulting criminal. Of course he had quite a few insolent minions.

"No, not dead, don't be ridiculous. Why did you choose to be a criminal?" Sherlock sniffed, reclining back into his chair.

He rolled his eyes. "Are you serious, Sherlock? I'm trying to eat a sandwich." He picked up a sandwich and took a large bite out of it, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock.

"When have I ever not been serious, Moriarty? Or since we're sharing such trivial circumstances, may I call you James?" Sherlock replied, eyeing his nemesis' sandwich with bloated distaste.

He rolled his eyes. "Jim would do, thank you very much." He popped the rather large bit of the sandwich left into his mouth, licking away the jam that stuck to the corners of his lips.

"You didn't answer my question, _Jim_," Sherlock replied, his mouth working over the criminal's name, frowning ever so slightly, "I never did understand what drew you to this side. Everything else, yes, I can comprehend, but your chosen side... Did it ever occur to you that had we ever met in a different life, we might've been friends?"

Jim frowned. This wasn't exactly the type of conversation he was used to, you see. He turned it over a moment or two in his mind, but he kept up his emotionless 'villain' facade. He sighed, and chuckled a bit. "What do you think this is? Some teenage drama?" He laughed a little more. "And to answer your question, I merely chose this side because the rules on yours simply didn't appeal to me. Satisfied yet?" He sipped at his tea.

"No. You're a highly functioning sociopath, as am I. Rules mean nothing to either of us, so no. I am not satisfied," Sherlock blinked, briefly surprised by his own genuine interest in the man sitting opposite him, but continued nonetheless, trying to bury himself within a different world where John could never exist, "You're lying to me, Jim, and whilst I do occasionally do too, it doesn't mean that I tolerate it from others," Sherlock replied, licking at his lips as he leaned forward ever slightly.

He was almost disappointed. Really now, Sherlock couldn't be that blind. Yes, he had easily seen through that lie, but hadn't he figured it out yet? Jim was almost reconsidering letting him in. Perhaps the drug abuse had turned his mind into a mess of mumbo jumbo. "Sherly, Sherly, that kind of attitude isn't going to get you anywhere in the world. Trust me, I have a bit of experience." He smiled.

"I'm not getting anywhere in the world, Jim, as you can see. I have nowhere _to_ go. So, entertain me, Mr Moriarty. I'm bored and your answers are dull," Sherlock sighed as he leant back into his chair, irritated, but still intrigued. He wanted to get to the core of this conversation and asking nicely wasn't the path to it, it seemed.

His top lip curled upwards into a sneer, "Was it your childhood, Jim? Mother didn't love you enough? Father hit you? Were you lonely, Jimmy?"

He twitched a little. Now that wasn't an exactly nice thing to say; but then again, Sherlock was not an exactly nice person. It wouldn't hurt to entertain a homeless man for just a bit longer. Jim would toss him away eventually, when he finally got bored. He sighed and shook his head, chuckling just the slightest bit. "Always straight to the point, aren't you, Sherly?"

He drained the last of his now luke warm tea. "Make yourself comfortable. This is quite the long story."

Sherlock blinked, somewhat surprised that it had been that easy to persuade Jim to tell his tale, but the suspicious part of the detective knew that it had been _too _easy and now he was on high alert. Either Moriarty was going to make everything up, or the man opposite him was not what Sherlock had deduced him to be. And Sherlock was hardly ever completely wrong.

Following Jim's instruction, Sherlock shuffled back into his chair a slight bit, and crossed one leg over the other, "Go on then."

Jim had no problem telling a soon to be dead man. All of those drugs in his system... he wouldn't last much longer anyway. He took a large dramatic sigh. "When I was a wee little boy in the Shire, a big old wizard came and whisked me away."

Sherlock sighed, "If this is the way you want to play, Jim..."

He laughed. "Did you really think I'd tell you? Do a little bit of snooping Sherlock, for Christ's sake you're a detective!" He got up and left the room, skipping a little as he shut the door and left Sherlock to his own devices.

Sherlock sat. And that was all he did, really.

For a second, his mind went over Jim's words. Detective? How long had it been since he had officially been a detective? Three years. Maybe. Maybe it was time to stop? Sherlock's brows furrowed. It had been long since he'd gotten excited at the prospect of a case.

That exhilaration died the day he realised all his solving memories consisted of John and he could no longer think about a case without a throbbing of pain. Sherlock swallowed back the grief and guilt as his mind was flooded by memories of the doctor. No. There was no more future for him as a detective. None.

Sherlock... Sherlock needed to move on. And that meant. Sherlock took a deep breath. And that meant letting go of the past. But, the question now hovered in front of him,_ What now? _What possibilities existed? There was no home to go to, no past to claim, no persona to be and no one to go back to. The only thing he had right now was an empty cup of tea, a chair losing Jim's warmth and...

Sherlock blinked and then everything slid into place. A breath whispered from his lips, "Oh."

The man's intelligent eyes scanned the room, finally resting on the very spot he would've chosen to place a hidden camera, "Jim, I know you're keeping an eye on me. I have a proposition that you may be... somewhat interested in. Come back inside and we'll discuss it."

He smiled. Seems like Sherlock hadn't quite lost his touch just yet. His finger reached over and pressed the button. "Oh well done Sherlock. How about we play one more game before we get down to business?" His voice sounded scratchy over the intercom. He'd have to get Sebastian to do something about that.

He could already see Sherlock's face turn gloomy. What was the term? Like a bullet train? He can't remember where he heard that one, but the context seemed to fit here.

He spoke again. "I want you to look around the room Sherlock. Go on now." He encouraged.

"Pick any item of your fancy. And I want you to tell me everything you can about it. If you do well, I'll let you stay for supper."

This would be good.

Sherlock's lips twitched up into a smile, "Tsk, tsk. You really should put limits on these things, Jim. Well, your loss."

The man stood and cleared his throat, "My item of fancy is, figuratively speaking, my proposition. Since you will not grace me with your presence, I'll tell you all about it now."

He looked straight through the camera, "You are lonely, Jim. As am I. No one will ever really understand us. Some people may try, like John or Sebastian, but sooner or later they will be won by someone else and they will stop trying. I don't propose a friendship, for we are far too different to even consider that, but I do proffer forward a business partnership. I have no wish to be a detective anymore. My gifts are no longer needed on that side of the fence."

Sherlock's smile faded for a moment when thinking of John, but he continued on, "Plainly put. People have begun to bore me, Jim. I just don't..." he tried thinking of the word, "I just don't care about them anymore. You once claimed I had a heart, Jim. I admit to that. But whatever was left of it has died and is shrivelling up. I don't want a heart anymore, Jim."

As he spoke, he realised every word he was true, "I don't want to feel anymore, Moriarty, and I think partnering with you will help me every bit as much as it will help you."

He didn't speak. He opened his mouth, but words didn't come out. His throat was dry all of a sudden, and he furrowed his brows. He was not expecting this. He... he did not know how to reply to that. But he couldn't let Sherlock have the last laugh. Not now, not ever.

He put on his normal voice. "Oh come now Sherly. Do you really think you have what it takes to survive in this world?" He threw in a chuckle for dramatic effect. "You've been pampered and loved by angels and you even act like one every now and then. Hell isn't the place for you."

"I beg to differ. However, if you wish, perhaps we can give my trip to hell a trial, before I make my stay permanent. A year trial? Or something shorter, Jim?" Sherlock sniffed, still talking straight through the camera, "You know it's awful rude of you to not be present while we discuss business."

There was silence for a second and a sad smile crept onto the raven headed man's face, his thoughts of John's marriage, "If it helps ease your mind any, I've lost my wings, Jim. Where else would I go but down without my wings?" His smile turned genuine then, inexplicably brightening his face, "Besides, I've heard the weather in Hell is fine."

He did a fake sigh. "Well, we play poker with Hitler on Tuesdays, but Satan always wins anyway." He left the room, doing his little skip of a walk and it really take too long before he appeared right behind Sherlock.

He grinned and leaned on the doorway, crossing his arms over the other. "It's going to take you a lot more than just lost wings to make it to hell. Trust me." Because trusting Jim was the only option Sherlock had right now. After all, the streets of Rio de Janeiro are very easy to get lost in.

"Well, I'm sure you'll be nothing but the best influence on me," Sherlock smirked, tilting slightly so that his eyes caught Jim's, "And by best, I, of course, mean the worst. With you in the room, I can already feel the horns beginning to bud above my brows."

And then it hit Sherlock that this conversation was amusing him. That... science forbid, Sherlock might be having fun in such a dangerous situation, where he was practically selling his soul for his sanity. And yet... it all seemed like such fun. Maybe Sherlock was finally becoming a psychopath and steering away from being a sociopath, but it didn't matter anymore.

No wings and no John.

Horns and Jim.

Tit for tat.

It was the only obvious progression. And it make perfectly logical sense. Sherlock smiled, "So, how about it, Jimmy?"

It almost too hard to contain his excitement. If things went well, Sherlock would probably end up killing himself, again. The kind of things Jim had planned... not exactly the nicest. "Well then, what are you waiting for?"

He happily skipped out of the room, whistling and skipping with his hands in his pockets. Hmm... Yes, let's take him to the slums first. Easiest place.

Now some might argue that after all that time, Jim had changed. That he was a cream puff and a softie. But that's stupid.

Jim Moriarty blew up a blind woman. He put innocent people through hours of emotional torture. He stole important government secrets. He destroyed a man's reputation. He forced said man to kill himself. He shot himself just to make it happen.

And he would do it all again? Why?

Because he can.

This would be a rather wonderful experience.

Sherlock followed him out the door, a vague sense of apprehension stirring inside him. But after a moment of analysation, Sherlock was rather appalled to find that it was excitement. Something akin to the taste of the beginning of a case.

A frown momentarily blemished Sherlock's mouth, but it quickly turned into a grin. There was absolutely nothing wrong with being excited by the prospect of something intriguing. Nothing at all. He briefly imagined John shaking his head, frowning slightly, "Bit not good, Sherlock."

But the sound of John's voice had begun to stop ringing clear. The tones had started to fade away. And Sherlock realised he no longer really remembered exactly what the doctor sounded like. It felt like a weight lifted from his shoulders. The world almost seemed... easier to walk through.

John was disappearing.

And Sherlock now knew that the new path his life was taking... actually had begun to feel appealing. As Sherlock followed Jim, he wasn't sure if he should be smiling or wincing. The emotions he felt drew forth both, but he decided on a neutral expression.

"May I ask as to where we are going, Jimmy?" Sherlock question, wondering if the man would pick up on the nick-name he had now used twice.

_Jimmy_ listened a little. His voice was a little more throaty, like he was holding back a smile. Footsteps, slightly rushed, but not too hard. The swishing of fabric indicated his arms were held behind his back. He smiled. Dare he say Sherlock was excited? Oh, ho ho.

"Well, for starters, we're in Brazil, Rio to be exact." Sure enough, the hallway ended with a staircase, which went upstairs, indicating they were in a basement (which also explained why there were no windows).

He went up the stairs, two at a time, like the child he was at heart. Though being excited for this kind of thing wasn't exactly the right attitude he should have. But then again, he is James Motherfucking Moriarty.

Sunlight started to filter through, and at the top of the stair case, there was a small black wooden gate. He opened it with a key in his pocket, and stepped out.

The streets were dirty and polluted and littered. Children walked round here and there, and there were plenty of adults as well. They all wore tattered clothes and were the very image of poor. There were trees, somewhere near the back, but they weren't really a walking distance away. Behind them was the master piece though. He turned round and looked above the little gateway, safely disguised as an abandoned subway.

The favelas. Tiny houses packed upon more tiny houses, creating a ordered chaos. It was like a hill that blocked out the sun. And if you looked closely, you could see people weaving in and out of the tiny alleyways between the houses.

This clearly wasn't the central part of Rio.

Sherlock blinked once, "What are we doing here?"

Jim snorted. "Did you expect me to stay in Britain after all that?"

He started walking off in some random direction, whistling the same tune as he had before. Some of the children stopped playing and simply stared as he walked past them. It wasn't everyday they saw the man in the suit. Some people say he came from Europe, but no one is really brave enough to ask him. He does look it though.

"Come on Sherly, don't fall behind!"

He walked upwards, straight into the favelas. Slipping into a tiny alleyway, he continued on, the edges of his clothing barely brushing the dirt smeared walls. Once Sherlock was caught up, he continued rambling on.

"Well Sherly, we're in Brazil. Britain got a boring for me, not enough to play with, and I had plenty a loose ends up here, so I decided, why not?"

The sky looked very cloudy. Perhaps it would rain soon.

"I realise we're in Brazil I'm not an idiot, Jimmy. I'm asking what we're doing here, precisely," Sherlock hissed as he followed the madman.

The first raindrop hit Sherlock's eyelash causing him to blink and gaze up at the sky, "I hope we're going under shelter soon. It's beginning to rain."

"Pff, please Sherlock. A little rain isn't going to hurt you."

He carried on, turning a corner sharply, moving sideways to let past people who were hurrying to get indoors. "And as to your question. I didn't really think you'd feel comfortable in England. I was only there to meet with a good friend of mine. Besides, it rains here just as much, so make yourself at home."

He stopped in front of a small building. He knocked on the door, before turning and facing Sherlock, smiling like he knew something he really shouldn't. "Wait out here for me, will ya' Sherly?"

He disappeared inside and closed the door.

Sherlock watched Moriarty's back as it disappeared. Well. This was odd. It almost felt as if the criminal had abandoned him here, in the slums of Brazil. However, he was willing to give Jimmy the benefit of the doubt.

After a few minutes, Sherlock's patience was at an end.

A young teenager opened the door, a rather grim expression on his face. He stepped aside. "Come."

He didn't bother to check whether Sherlock was following him or not. He was already having a bad day as it was. A member had sold drugs for extra cheap to the wrong gang. On purpose. And dealing with him would only end up worsening his day, but the boss says he has to get it done. He goes through the dingy wooden halls, opening a rickety door.

Moriarty was inside, standing next to another teen, who was tied to a chair, and by the looks of it, was rather beaten up. Jim smiled.

Sherlock gazed at the situation coolly, raising an eyebrow, "What did he do?"

He shook his head. "Oh nothing much really. Not worth mentioning. If it suits you, ya' can make a little deduction about him later." He slipped his hand into his jacket, like he was taking something out. "But for now, _you _have other business to worry about."

He took his hand out of his pocket, revealing a short hand pistol. He took Sherlock's hand, and forced his finger to clasp around the hilt.

"What the boy did isn't important. What's important is that this is the first step of many."

He backed off and stood against the wall. "Shoot him, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked down at the offensive weapon in his hand, then at the teenager strapped to the chair, "I suppose he stole from you, somehow. And honestly, Jim, I don't know what you're thinking. You never really bother to give me restrictions, now do you?"

Before Jim could say anything, Sherlock fired off a round into the boy's leg; the youth screamed in pain, the bullet passing straight through his muscles, blood splattering onto the wall behind him in a delightful crimson firework.

Sherlock then proceeded to empty the gun off into an adjacent wall. When the weapon was expired of projectiles, Sherlock pulled it apart, placing the now non-dangerous parts back into Moriarty's empty hands, "There, I shot him, Jimmy."

Moriarty's blank expression made Sherlock's lips curve into something akin to a smile for a moment and Sherlock was briefly shocked. He'd shot the boy in the leg to not permanently injure him, but, Sherlock realised, he'd done it to more rebel against Jim's instructions and, most shocking, the moaning that was now coming from the teenager did not elicit any sort of empathy within him. In fact, as Sherlock stared at him now, he didn't even feel any sense of guilt.

"Not good, Sherlock," Sherlock imagined John saying, but instead of guilt when Sherlock thought of it, something else welled inside of him; anger.

Sherlock was angry, so very angry. He didn't know why, but now he regretted wasting the bullets. He could've shot Moriarty, the boy and then himself. And then everything would've been over for them all, forever. And he didn't mind the thought of it.

The feelings inside of him stirred and he found himself looking at Jim in a different light. Was this the way that Moriarty had always felt? For a second, something very close to sympathy struck Sherlock's core, but he forced away the thought. Sympathise with Moriarty? Ridiculous.

Sherlock forced a yawn, "I grow bored, Jimmy."

Well, that wasn't all too shocking. He'd expected Sherlock to rebel in one way or another, maybe aim a shot at Jim, or even himself. That's why Sebastian had a gun aimed at his head through the cracks in the wall. Though Sherly didn't need to know that.

The corners of his lips tugged into a smile. "Well Sherly, you do know how to disappoint."

His hand slipped into his pocket and pulled out a short pocket knife. He stepped toward the suffering teenager. "Though I like your creativity, making him suffer rather than giving him a painless death. But let me show you how it's really done."

He shoved the knife into the boy's bicep and dragged it upwards, making him scream out in pain. Blood splattered onto his perfectly tailored suit, but he could always get it cleaned later. Right now, he had priorities. Cutting away at the flimsy sleeve, he dug the knife into his shoulder and twisted it like a cork screw, before bringing it down to his collarbones in a zigzag.

Now Jim was just getting a bit carried away here, but he couldn't really help himself. He wasn't one for getting his hands dirty; he had Sebastian for that. He usually preferred to watch the suffering from a distance. But there was always that raw emotion that he couldn't shake out when he did it himself. I suppose you could say he got off on it.

But Jim is not a man of words.

He pulled the knife out and slipped it back into his pocket. He was rather satisfied with the surprise on Sherlock's face.

"And that's how it's done, Sherly."

"You got blood on you," Sherlock snarked, irritated, "Not exactly what one would call a clean kill, now was it?"

The death of the boy felt like nothing. No, not even that. It was indifference. The pain on the teen's face before he had died would've once torn Sherlock inside, but now when he thought back a few seconds... there was nothing.

It seemed with the loss of John, Sherlock's heart had stopped caring. A smile curved up his lips, giving him a rather... demonic expression. Sherlock didn't care anymore. It almost amazed him. It filled him with a sense of accomplishment.

His gaze turned, excited, to Moriarty, "What next, Jimmy?"

He decided that he rather liked this new Sherlock. The way his eyes had the slightest winkle of joy now... yes. This was perfect. This was absolutely perfect.

His grin mirrored Sherlock. "Well, come on then! We're going to have so much fun!"

Jim almost had to stop himself from skipping his way out of a murder scene, but hey, who fucking cares? He did so anyway.

Unable to resist smiling at Moriarty's antics, he followed behind, completely intrigued. He never really saw Jim in this light. Jim was... almost a child, even spattered with blood, there was an immature delight in the way he stepped. A bob in his step that momentarily mesmerised Sherlock.

"Yes, let's go have more fun," Sherlock found himself saying and, more surprisingly, meaning it.

He stepped out of the dingy wooden building into the pouring rain. Not that he cared. His suit was covered in blood anyway. He skipped through the narrow alleyway, past rushing woman trying to bring the laundry in on time.

It seemed he was heading uphill.

Sherlock followed, nonplussed.

He did a little twirl mid step. "Doesn't this seem like one of those Broadway classicals that everyone always get fussy over? Cept' we're in the middle of Rio and covered blood! And oh!" He pointed his finger up at the sky like he'd just had a revelation. "That should totally happen! I don't really like normal people shows, but this would be an exception!"

He continued on, rambling in the same manner.

The way in which Jim swirled made Sherlock wonder just how much of Moriarty was a child and how much was a sadistic man. How much of these two qualities twisted and enmeshed to create the being known as James Moriarty?

It was unlikely Sherlock would ever know, but the... almost pure delight wafting from Jim in waves of childish joy made a smile curl at the edge of Sherlock's lips and he found himself rather warming to the image. The newly made criminal froze mentally. No.

Sherlock had promised himself to never care again. And he would not. He couldn't handle another John. It would be too much, just as last time had been too much. _No more warmth for other people, Sherlock_ - the man thought to himself. _Only ever now think of yourself_.

And yet when he gazed at the consulting criminal skipping in front of him, the almost-smile would not fade from his face. Sherlock convinced himself that the smile was because he was mocking Moriarty. The excuse he told himself was enough.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock managed to ask evenly.

"Well, the main parts of our journey are the hill and the corner, but there's a few hills to the corner, and a few corners to the hill!" And he continued on, rambling about things like the weather, and how horrible normal people were and how cheap weed was here and other such. He just could not stop talking.

He almost missed the smile on Sherlock's face, and the way his voice was far too even, and the way his expression seemed forced. But Jimmy was smarter than that, and Jimmy saw through it all.

He stopped in front of a ladder for a moment, contemplating whether or not it was the right one. But hey, he wanted to go up, and this was the fastest way. And so up he went.

The buildings were so close together and a few small hops here and there were needed. The rain fell freely on him now, and was much louder as it splattered the hard rooftops. The blood was even starting to fall from his suit, but not too much at once though. He left the slightest trail of red behind him wherever he went.

With a sigh, Sherlock followed. The childish antics were beginning to grow old.

And sure enough, the hyperness began to fade off. Just a little though. They were nearing the top of the 'mountain'.

"I'm going to ask again, where are we going, Jimmy?"

"Top of the world." Well, not exactly. They had arrived at their destination. The site was quite amazing. Small rays of sunlight barely held onto the unseen horizon. For miles around them, the favelas stretched out, in intricate patterns and tiny mountains. "You see all this Sherly? It's all mine. Every inch. There isn't a single soul in here that doesn't worship me."

"Oh please, for one, you sound like Mufasa. Two, I don't worship you, Jimmy," Sherlock drawled, giving the sight a vague glance.

He was almost disappointed, but he wasn't going to let that ruin the nearly over high he was on. "Oh please," he countered, "as if we're on the same level as these nitwits. They're ordinary, in case you've forgotten."

"So, I'm no longer ordinary, Jimmy?" Sherlock asked, taken the slightest off balance by the admittance, and then a small smirk formed on his face, "What about newly born babies with no belief, Jim? I hardly think that counts as worshipping you now."

He rolled his eyes. Was Sherlock really going to use a bland reason in an argument. Better put up with it. He'd have to enrol Sherlock in Smartassery 101 if he was going to keep up with James. "Well, babies are born with natural intuition to follow what's right. It's just their parents who change them."

"Who said you're right? If anything, I'd be willing to be that you love to be against the conventional. You'd argue for the right to be wrong, Jimmy," Sherlock replied, meeting Moriarty's dark eyes.

He smiled. Well, this was getting interesting. "Following the same logic, you'd think I'm wrong, and if right is wrong and wrong is right then whole world loves me."

"Right isn't wrong, Jimmy. Only you are," Sherlock grinned, enjoying the conversation.

He paused over that one. "Wait.. If right is wrong and wrong is..." He held his hands up and kept moving them around, trying to figure where on Earth the conversation was going. So far, he had no clue.

"Simply put, Jimmy, everything is subjective. I learnt that... a few days ago," Sherlock chuckled a bit, but the memory of John's wedding still stung, "And besides, is this the only reason you took me up here? To show off your unknowing worshippers?"

He shrugged. "Not really. Though I did come up here to ask you a few things." He smiled.

"So tell me, have you ever dreamt of ruling the world?"

"When I was a boy," Sherlock replied, a faint smile on his lips.

Moriarty raised an intrigued eyebrow, "Oh really, Sherly-dear?"

"Of course. Who didn't? Well, I imagine most people didn't design entire government upheavals and law changes, but then again, I was never most people. Nonetheless, I very much enjoyed the idea of ruling the world... until I realised it would just be boring. Too much commitment, Jimmy, I've no taste for the dull side of things, you know," Sherlock grinned back.

This conversation actually seemed civil. It both shocked and pleased Sherlock.

"Still, you have to admit." He held up a finger to make his point. "That it would be a very fun thing to do."

"Though I have to admit, ruling the underground is far easier than ruling the real thing. Much less commitment involved, you know. Just give em' a few scares now and then." He shrugged.

"Ahh, suits you admirably well then," Sherlock smirked, "Is there anywhere else you wish to drag my today?"

"Back down? I'm getting kind of hungry after all." He hopped downwards, building to building.

Sherlock copied his movements inch for inch, not missing a step, "Yes, I'm a bit peckish too."

"I think we're having sushiiii~." Hmm, so where would he take Sherlock afterwards? He had several other countries that needed bothering, so maybe he'd have to pick. Or maybe he could put some names in a hat and get Sherly to do it for him.

"Sushi, huh," Sherlock murmured, quietly going through his mind about various types of food. He had not the slightest idea of what sushi was. He gathered it was Japanese cuisine from the sound of it, and that, most likely, it would appeal to something Jimmy would enjoy. This meant it had to have the potential of being costly. And costly meant fresh. However, fresh was hard to get unless there were sources. And they were in a fairly odd country with extremely diversifying terrain - which meant that everything was easily accessible. That must mean that it couldn't be mammalian in essence, because that wouldn't be rare enough. And vegetables did not seem a good match for someone who enjoyed meat so much.

Thus, sushi had to involve expensive sea creatures of the freshest variety, Sherlock concluded, "Yes, I wouldn't mind some sushi."

Ugh, why did he have to keep the entrance all the way at the bottom? There was another door, but he'd lost key so long ago and he hadn't thought of looking for it since he thought he wouldn't need it. Really, he should keep a radar on these things.

He was fairly sure that Sebastian had told the chef to make sushi for them. He wondered whether Sherlock had ever had sushi. It's fairly common in London, plenty of sushi shops everywhere. Though Sherlock wasn't the go-out type of person. Did he even know what sushi was? Probably not. He almost snorted out loud, but that ruin the little happy-boy-facade he was keeping up.

As they neared the entrance, the atmosphere around them seemed to shrivel to nothing. The air... felt wrong. Sherlock noticed it instantly and was opening his mouth to mention it to Moriarty, when the echoing sound of metal thrashing along a solid floor entered their hearing.

Sherlock immediately knew what it was. Grenade. GRENADE. Oh, for god's sake. Grabbing Moriarty, as if by reflex, on the wrist, Sherlock tugged the man to a nearby impression in the wall, forcing both of them as far into the groove as possible. He found himself pressed up uncomfortably close to Jimmy, bracing himself, body tense - ready for the impact.

The explosion was deafening and it caused a ringing to continue in their ears for some time. Shrapnel flew everywhere, tearing holes in buildings. The slight hole in the wall had saved them from the impact of the grenade. The fires sizzled away, eating at the walls close by and Sherlock wasn't surprised to find that the back of his coat had its own special flame as well.

The heat was slightly off-putting and he gave it little thought, turning his attention to the face that was now only inches from his own, looking him directly in the eye, almost unable to contain his anger, "I don't suppose this present was from some friend of yours, Jimmy, hmmm?"

The sounds of bullet shots whizzed through the air and the walls shaking near the two of them, showed how true the enemy's aim was. Little pieces of dirt fell from the roof, drizzling onto the heads of the men hiding in the wall.

Sherlock wasn't angry at consulting criminal, but at himself. He had promised he would only ever think about himself. He had told himself to be selfish. And yet, at a time when his life was in imminent danger, he had still saved someone else's life over his own. And the someone he had saved... what had he been thinking?

_Nothing, evidently_, Sherlock hissed in his mind,_ I wasn't thinking anything. I was just so used to_... John popped back into his head and the terrible stomach sinking sensation that accompanied thoughts of his previous partner began to appear as well. Waiting on Moriarty's reply, Sherlock grit his teeth against the pain and reached down to the ground to pick up a handful of dirt, which he used to extinguish the fire on his back.

James, stunned, could only blink for a moment. The loud explosion was so sudden it left him deafened for a moment. He winced. He was in such a good mood, but _no,_ something had to go wrong, didn't it. He pushed Sherlock off, taking note of the uncomfortable breach of personal space.

"What are you waiting for? Run you bloody idiot!" He grabbed the other man's wrist and dragged him downwards, back towards the entrance of the hideout. Why? Of all the days, why did it have to be on sushi night? He had never been so enraged in his entire life. He could hear some screaming in the back, and there was rain falling heavy on his shoulders that had seemed to appear out of nowhere, but he couldn't care less.

Bullets screamed down around them and the close by sound of one made Sherlock throw himself onto Moriarty, the dangerous projectile darting straight through where they'd been previously. Picking himself up, Sherlock groaned, "You know. There WAS a reason I didn't want to move. It's called strategy, you know. Wait for them to come for us. Not run through the thick of it like headless chickens."

And then they were running for their lives again, unaware of the vice-like grip both their hands had on each other's.

Okay, the door wasn't much farther now. His free hand dug into his pocket to get the key out. He swung around the wall and hurriedly pushed it in, forcing the gate open, and kicked it closed behind him and Sherlock.

"Oh shut up. Do you even have a clue about what's going on? Yes, I thought so." He would not wait for a reply.

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to TELL me what is going on then," Sherlock hissed, rushing behind after him, "Because as far as I'm concerned those people might just have a right to kill you."

"Oh, _shut up._" He probably skidded down a few stairs, ruining the soles of his shoes, but oh well.

Sherlock stopped at the top of the stairs, glaring daggers at Moriarty, and then simply sat on the floor, "I'm not moving until you tell me what's happening."

Many people would assume Sherlock was throwing temper tantrum. He was.

He was just about to start yelling, but honestly, this was going to waste even more time. He glared right back the other man. "Remember the Black Lotus? I messed around with some of their stuff. Now if you want to live another day, move!"

Sherlock smiled, and quicker than Jim could blink, he was running there, right beside him, "Glad you could spare a few seconds, Jimmy."

He rolled his eyes and chose not to say anything. This was annoying enough already. He'd assumed Sebastian had already gotten everyone out, and if they hadn't then he could always find a new staff. Further downwards he went. Eventually though, they arrived at an underground... river? Strange.

"Is this meant to be here?" Sherlock asked, taking in Moriarty's expression.

"Well yes. It is. Haven't been here at all really. Sebastian was the one who made the escape route. I was a tad bit busy at the time." He started walking down the side of the 'river', like he'd remembered Sebastian telling him to in case of an emergency.

"Are you entirely sure? Rivers don't usually occur beneath buildings, unless you're in Venice and seeing as we're not in Venice, I don't suppose this is actually very natural," Sherlock replied, walking after him.

"Sometimes I think Sebastian spends too much time on the telly. Probably one of his bogus ideas." There was a boat not too far in front, with an engine. It seemed the other boats had already taken off. A little note was taped to the wall nearby. 'Just keep going straight :) '

Sherlock snickered slightly, "I don't suppose he meant that in an antagonistic way, Jimmy."

He mumbled something about how Sebastian needed to keep his homo tendencies away from him. I mean seriously, Jim was straighter than a yard stick. _Obviously._

He got into the boat and started it up.

"And where does this go?" questioned Sherlock with a raised brow.

He tugged a little at the weird string thingy and it started moving. He could only hope he was doing this right. "It leads a few miles away from here, to a safe area. There will be an airplane just waiting to take us to somewhere not dangerous."

"Care to define the 'not dangerous area'?" Sherlock hissed, irritated by... everything. Everything was getting on his nerves. Being shot at, saving someone who he did not want to save, having to constantly dig for answers. It was all beginning to wear Sherlock thin.

"Not dangerous as in not here, you bumbling idiot. Stop asking questions." Just why, why did he decide to save this man?

"Why?" Sherlock asked with a smirk.

He did not have the patience to put up with this. Nope. None at all. Within a second, Jim was on the other side of the boat with his fist curled around Sherlock's collar and a lack of personal space. "Sherly dear, do me a favour, and _shut up." _

Sherlock smiled, and in the blink of the eye, he also had a fist of Jim's hair, holding the thin and short strands extremely tightly, "No favours for you, Jimmy."

He pushed Sherlock down to the floor of the boat and straddled him. "Now you listen here, you realise I could very well turn round and offer you as a virgin sacrifice to the Black Lotus, so it'd do you well to do as I say."

As Sherlock was thrown to the floor, the air in is lungs 'oomphed' out and Jim's thighs tensing around him was constricting his breath. Still, this didn't mean Sherlock didn't have the upper hand, he grinned, "Oh yes, let's turn around. That should be fun. I wonder who'll be shot then, you or me. I rather think you'll be disappointed if you think they care anything about hurting me, Jimmy."

"Also, get off me or the metal shard I'm holding in my hand is going directly to your sweet spot. You know the place; left of the spine, fourth lumbar down, the abdominal aorta. Might just kill you. Who knows really," Sherlock continued as he tapped the make-shaft blade against Moriarty's back, unable to contain his smirk.

He'd picked it up along with the dirt when he had put the fire out on his coat and had stealthily slid it into his pocket without Jim's knowing. The expression on Moriarty's face was priceless and Sherlock knew he'd treasure it for as long he'd live.

And it was that second, between James' legs that Sherlock realised he didn't actually care about living. He didn't care about himself. Jim's weight was crushing, but Sherlock didn't care. Was it possible? After spending only a day or so in the company of the consulting criminal, had Sherlock finally become apathetic? And why did he feel more excited about the prospect of being terrible, than fear? What was happening to him? And why didn't he dislike it?

As he pondered these questions, he waited for James to move.

He grimaced.

Perhaps he'd been being too easy on himself. For Sherlock to have snuck a knife this far... He must really be out of touch. He got off of Sherlock and sat himself back in his seat, making sure to move the other's hand out of his way.

He retreated his hand to the steering, to make they didn't crash into a wall or anything. He sat silently and merely glared at rather irritating man sitting in front of him. Behind him, he could see the end of the tunnel. Ah, finally. He'd rather not spend this much time with in a five meter radius of Sherlock. Too much annoying wasn't good for his health.

The tunnel ended, and opened up to a small dock of sorts. Nearby, there was a small plane of sorts. Sebastian was standing next to it with his arms crossed, but he immediately brightened up when he saw James. Though he not quite when he saw Sherlock.

Sherlock had long since pocketed his personal weapon and had been glaring unfathomably at Jimmy, but when he saw Moran at the exit, he wondered why he was still even here. Sebastian could kill him in an instant. _Well. I don't suppose it matters much_, Sherlock grinned humourlessly to himself, _No like anyone will mourn your death._

"Ahh, Moran, I can't say it's a pleasure, because that'd be a lie, but I must say I'm rather appreciative that you've finally shown yourself," Sherlock smiled, waving a polite hand.

Moran went over to help up James, who merely swatted him away. Oh dear, it seemed he was in a bad mood. This only further brought him to the conclusion that Sherlock was not someone to be trusted, because clearly _he_ was the one that made James mad.

Nonetheless, he kept up his manners, because Jim had told him to be especially careful with the other man. "The pleasure is mine." He said, putting up his most sugary smile.

He pointed towards the plane. "Perhaps it'd be best to leave soon."

Sebastian's smile almost gave Sherlock goose bumps, there was something terrifying predatory about it and Sherlock knew instantly that this was not a man to mess with.

Sherlock pointed, "Who's the pilot?"

"One of the staff. And don't worry about him, I'll shoot him the moment the plane lands." The way he said that with a smile and a wave of his hand was rather eerie. He boarded the plane, after a mumbling and frowning Moriarty. It seemed the villain extraordinaire was being fussy.

He was.

Sherlock, nonplussed by Jim's statement, followed, "Where are we off to?"

Sebastian shut the door and locked it. "Hmm, Vegas I suppose. We were scheduled to go there in a week or two anyway." He disappeared into the cockpit to see the pilot. James plopped himself down in his seat and folded his arms like a child that was scolded too many times.

"What is he doing here?" Sebastian asked, his voice barely masking the contempt.

Sherlock found a seat in the back somewhere and sat down to think. There was, obviously, a lot to think about.

"Oh he obviously here to flip pancakes for us. Use yer' mind ya bloody git!" He crossed his arms across his chest and huffed, slinking back in his seat.

Sebastian sat down with a rather hurt look on his face, and buckled up as the pilot started the plane off.

"Is there any sushi on this plane?" Sherlock asked with a smirk.

"SEBASTIAN!" His voice could heard from Bolivia.

Sherlock cringed a tad bit, the scream almost as loud as the grenade they had narrowly escaped.

Sebastian came running, but not after grabbing onto the wall and sobbing for the Lord as the plane experienced slight turbulence.

On shaky legs, he walked forward to James. "Yes sir?"

Sherlock waited patiently. He was used to not eating for long periods of time and this irked him none.

"My guest and I would love some food if you don't mind? It is an awfully long flight, and I would just hate to be any hungrier than I already am."

There was a bit of poison in his voice, and a shiver ran through his spine. The last time James Moriarty was hungry he blew up the top of the favelas and killed thirty people. Trying to cover it up was a pain in the ass.

"You honestly don't have to, Moran," Sherlock added to piss Moriarty off, "Maybe he'd like a nap first, hmmm?"

He smiled at the consulting criminal, ever so sweetly, "You DO look tired, Jimmy."

Such insolence shall not be tolerated on his plane. Not now, not ever. He stared at him for a good half second, before blowing his top. Calmly, of course. "Sebastian, do stick his head out of the window for me, would you?"

Sherlock grinned, "Aw, look - he's so tired, he's grumpy, Moran!"

Sebastian couldn't help but grin and then point out the flaw in Moriarty's order, "I wouldn't have a problem with your command, sir, but the suction of the open window at our current speed would almost certainly be uncomfortable for you to sit through and potentially dangerous. I suggest we wait until a more compliant speed before I do this."

"Listen to him, Jimmy, he knows what he's talking about," Sherlock added, smirking.

He twitched rather irritably. As much as it enraged him, both were right. "Stick his head in the toilet then, would you?"

"Not much water in airplane toilets," Moran replied regretfully.

"I suppose planes are built for safety," Sherlock commented.

"At least tie him up and gag him, would you?" He snapped back.

"That I can do," Sebastian nodded and went off to fetch some supplies from a handy carry-on bag.

"You're not exactly prepared for this sort of event, are you?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"That's Sebastian's job." He slumped in his seat with his arms crossed on his chest, mumbling something about incompetent leprous asses.

Sherlock could strangely get used to this. He didn't say that out loud. That would be ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Besides, he was not meant to like this. At all. This was a partnership born out of necessity, not emotion. _But how was there ever one without the other?_ Argued back the Watson in his head.

The thought of John deadened any pleasure he'd felt and he fell coldly silent, staring out the plane widow, his eyes glazed over, memories flying through his head. Oh, certainly the memories hurt, but with the pain came a sort of punishment which Sherlock felt he needed. He'd let Watson slip through his fingers after all, he'd been the one to destroy any semblance of a home by his faked suicide and he'd been the one to approach Jim for help.

Everything, in the end, was his fault and he could live through that and the pain that accompanied it. It was his payment. His due.

As irritated as James was, he did notice something strange about Sherlock. The way his irises flicked downward indicated him remembering something. And by the sombre look on his face, it probably wasn't something very nice. His jaw was clenched in the slightest way; perhaps it was a painful memory?

Knowing Sherlock, he must have been thinking of his 'previous' life. It was one of the few things that James didn't like about Sherlock. Becoming emotionally attached to ordinary people was dangerous enough. Things like this are what clouded the mind, and are the reason there are so few people like them left in the world.

Sebastian came in and tied Sherlock loosely with some rope, just enough to satisfy Moriarty, who had already sighed and turned his head. Thinking of something like this was tedious and unnecessary. He rested his head back, and decided to take a nap.

For once, Sherlock followed suit without a word, letting his eyes close and memories of John dance on his eyelids. It was a sweet sort of pain.

*WEIRD TIME SKIP WOOHOOO~*

When Sherlock awoke with a crink in his neck and muck in his eyes which he couldn't wipe away because of the restraints. Jim was still asleep. It was odd; how peaceful he looked when he slept. Curious, actually. Sherlock stopped looking at the man when he realised he was staring.

Sebastian spoke over the intercom. "Sherlock, do both us of a favour and untie yourself. There's a knife under your arm rest, and if you can't get it done, wake up Jim, would you?" Then the intercom shut off with a little ping! and the plane was silence once more, but for the air-conditioning.

Of course, Sherlock had been humouring the two the entire time. He had allowed himself to still be tied up. With the skill of a man with a dubious background, Sherlock quickly untied himself, following Sebastian's instructions.

He stood and stretched, letting out a yawn before walking over to Moriarty. He was still deeply asleep. Sherlock observed him for a moment before taking a seat opposing him, positioning himself comfortable. James Moriarty was a strange person. Sherlock had thought he had understood that. Evidently, as he sat in the chair watching the man sleep, he did not.

There was much about Jim that he did not know. And maybe he didn't want to. Maybe things were better that way. Who knew. Besides, he wasn't meant to attach himself to another person. Apathy was the point of this partnership, nothing else.

A small smile played on his lips, as he thought that this was the most fun he'd had in quite some time. Yes. Jimmy was a strange person who did strange things, but that suited Sherlock just fine.

The plane started to descend, getting a little shaky as it did so. Well, a little wasn't the proper word for it. It was more like God had turned into a three year and decided that this was a toy he could throw at walls. Brick walls.

Jim nearly fell out of his chair. And somehow, he still hadn't woke up, but instead let out a little snore as he was flung back into place.

And then, all of a sudden, the plane went back to being nice and calm. The supposed pilot came out of the pilot's cabin, stumbling like a drunk. No wait, scratch that, he is drunk. His face was far too red and he kept stepping on his own feet.

Sebastian spoke on the intercom once more. "Sherlock, kill the fucker for me, would yeah? He got drunk when I was asleep and tried crashing the fookin' plane." Wait, was that an accent? Perhaps.

Sherlock blinked, quite taken off guard. Of course, not being an absolute idiot he'd put his seat belt on and so the turbulence had meant only a brief moment of being jostled. A drunk pilot? How irresponsible. He shook his head with a sigh.

"And what, Moran, do you suppose I kill him with? I'll have you know I have a slight aversion to choking people. They scratch," Sherlock hissed as he unclipped his belt and stood.

"Knife under your arm rest, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed, again. Then he deftly slipped the blade from its position and gave it a quick glare. It looked sharp. Sherlock's gaze transferred between the knife and the stumbling fool. Would Sherlock be able to kill him? It was an odd feeling, a strange emotion.

Was this, perhaps, a test like some many other things had been?

Well. Sherlock knew one thing. He was not one to back down from a challenge. And with that, Sherlock stood, strode over to the pilot and without blinking slid the knife under the man's jaw, biting into the jugular. Blood spurted forth, but Sherlock side-stepped.

A strangled gargle escaped the pilot's mouth as he clutched incomprehensively at his throat. Sherlock watched. He waited. Waited for that heart-wrenching feeling of guilt, of shame. Of John's voice. But nothing came. Nothing.

The only thing singing in his mind was... boredom and the brief thrum of his blood, as if excited by the act he'd just committed.

Sherlock blinked and returned to his seat. Odd. Very, very odd.

Unfortunately though, just a little splurt of blood ended up on James' pant sleeve. Not that he noticed of course. Ol' bloke was still snoring like a baby. Probably imagining himself in the crown jewels again, and what not. He certainly did look quite dashing then.

Sebastian brought the plane down to a smooth landing, not the slightest bit bumpy. Made a person wonder why he didn't just pilot the plane from the start. After the plane had come to a complete stop, he spoke over the intercom. "One last request Sherlock. Could you wake up James please?" Strangely, he sounded the slightest bit fearful.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at where he knew the camera in the plane would be placed.

"Pretty please?" Moran winced over the speaker.

Sherlock's brow creased ever so slightly as he approached the consulting criminal, gently nudging his shoulder, "James, it is time to awaken. We're landing soon."

James turned his face away, groaning. It was far too early to wake up. And he'd woken up hungry too. He hated being hungry. "Moraaaan, I want breakfast." He moaned, without opening his eyes to actually check if it was Moran. He was too tired to be in full control of his sense.

Sherlock found himself snapping, "Up, Moriarty!"

With the sudden shock, Jim's defence seemed to wake up before he did. His hands flew to the belt buckle, unlocking it, before reaching up and grabbing Sherlock's collar and swinging him into the closest wall. He hadn't even opened his eyes yet.

Sherlock tapped the knife in his hands against Jim's groin, "You might want to rethink that, Jimmy."

He lifted a hand up to rub the crust out of his eyes. It was far too early for knives. And bloody hell, he was starving. Sighing, he let go and backed off of Sherlock, before collapsing back into his seat. Too early for movement.

Sherlock let out an impatient sigh and then sat back into his chair, "Jim, it's time to wake up, we're nearly there."

"You realise we have to wait until Sebastian says it okay to get off of the plane? What if the stair thingy wasn't there yet?" He rolled over and face planted himself into the chair.

"Then we'd be prepared for the unexpected," Sherlock quipped back.

Sebastian came out of the cabin at that point, looking blankly at the dead body on the floor, before yawning. "That's going to leave horrid stains." He walked over and unlocked the door, to reveal that the stair thingy had indeed, arrived.

"Jimmy can always buy another," Sherlock sniffed.

James got up and hobbled out of the air plane, shielding his eyes from the burning sunlight. It seemed they were just outside of the city, in the desert.

"Well this... isn't what I was entirely expecting," Sherlock commented, shading his eyes from the harsh light as he followed Moriarty out.

"Neither was I, when I was here last." Really, the telly made people think that America was all nice suburbs and fancy forests and lakes.

"Honestly, Jimmy, what business do we have here?" Sherlock asked as squinted, his eyes adjusting to the light.

He pointed to the city, actually quite close to them. "What do you think?"

"Death, murder, mayhem? The usual criminal thing, I suppose," Sherlock replied, indifferent.

"Spot on, Sherly." A sleek black car drove up to them, and James stepped forward, Moran opening the door for the man.

Sherlock followed suit and slid into the other side of the car, "I don't suppose you'd be willing to elaborate on that?"

"Eh, not really." He settled himself in his seat, crossing his leg over the other.

Sherlock sighed and let his head loll back, "How about we have a conversation? Hmmm?"

"What's there to talk about Sherly?" True enough, both had deducted each other in a matter of seconds. Talk about the weather, about how they've been... Unnecessary.

"Well, John and-" Sherlock stopped his sentence, suddenly aware that he was beginning to compare his old work associate with his new one. He didn't know how he could. They were both so different.

Maybe that was the point. But it didn't stop that little barb of self-hate from pricking him in the heart as he continued, "We used to discuss things. Topics of interest. As I understand it, you enjoy putting people in pain. Why?"

James picked up on that little thing. Was Sherlock still thinking about that ordinary old bloke? People like that would only bring you down. "Well, making people happy is much more boring.

Watching them scream, the fear in their eyes... I suppose you could say it keeps me going."

Sherlock blinked, but didn't react any further. He hadn't expected the man to reply, let alone take the question seriously.

"In what sense?"

"Dunno." Jim yawned. He was seriously hungry.

"Alright then. Do you have any topics of interest that you wish to discuss with me?" Sherlock usually liked silence, it let him think.

But he knew exactly what he'd think of if there were silence and he didn't want to think about it at all.

"Have you ever tried crystal meth?"

A ghost of a smile crept onto Sherlock's lips, but his eyes were dead, dull... dangerous, "Who hasn't, Jimmy?"

"Just a question, Sherly. Anyway, drugs do tend to get boring after a while." He'd had more than enough of _those_ kinds of things in his teenage years, being the curious boy he was.

"Do they really?" Sherlock's mind drifted for a second to the way in which Moriarty had... acquired him, "I think that's the point."

There was silence for a moment, in which Sherlock turned his gaze to the outside of the car through the window, "Ever indulged in carnal relations?"

James literally started choking on air. What exactly were words again?

He didn't even think Sherlock would have the balls to ask him that sort of thing. Did Sherlock even know what that meant?

James' reaction did not go over Sherlock's head. He grinned and braved a look at Jimmy's face. It was, in fact, just as hilarious as Sherlock thought it would be. The man was going red!

"Well, have you?" Sherlock hammered the point home.

He really was having a hard time finding words for this. "Well, uhm..." His accent made it sound all the funnier. His voice even squeaked a bit! He mumbled out a few words that were barely audible, before looking away and blushing.

"What? What was that?" Sherlock queried, raising an eyebrow.

He mumbled a few more words, still barely audible. Just when were they arriving at the city?

"Apologies, James, we're in a traffic jam. Might be another half an hour, at the most," Moran spoke back to the two in the chair.

Oh, shit. Definitely no avoiding this conversation then. He gave a side glance to Sherlock, who looked like he wasn't even trying to hide that smirk. One that looked rather... good on him.

Whoa, Jimmy. Slow down there boy.

"No experience then?" Sherlock continued, this time speaking down to Moriarty, looking down the slope of his nose, his eyes narrowed in amusement.

"Actually, I um..." He nervously looked away. God, is this what having the talk with parents is like? He could hardly imagine Sherlock being a parent of any sort, gay for ordinaries or not.

"Have a lot of experience." That part was whispered out, only loud enough for Sherlock to hear. Moran would throw a fit if he found out James wasn't a virgin.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up in surprise, which he couldn't hide even if he tried, and he found that he couldn't meet the man's eyes anymore. He cleared his throat and stared out the window, "Ahem - yes, um, ahem, very interesting."

Was Sherlock, _embarrassed?_ Ohoho, how the tables have turned. James put a rather devious looking smirk and leaned forward, all previous nervousness forgotten. "Have **you,** ever been in a carnal relationship?"

Blushes were impossible to suppress and in this case, Sherlock was not an exception. The tinge of rose flourished in his cheeks and he swallowed. He tried to inch his way away from Jimmy, curling around the door of the car, as close as he could, "A select few."

James grinned. So Sherlock actually did know what sex was. Well, that was rather surprising, considering how little the other man knew of the world. Oh yes, this was becoming a conversation quite in Jim's favour.

"Ever had a lap dance?"

Sherlock visibly relaxed, and he eased back into his chair. He could steer this conversation somewhere he felt much more comfortable with.

"For a job once. A lot of the more questionable things I've done have been for a job."

James easily caught that. My job he obviously meant work with John. The very thought of working on such terms with an ordinary made him sick. "And outside of work?"

"Outside of work, what?" Sherlock replied, a crinkle in his brow.

He caught Jimmy's intense gaze, "Oh. No, I haven't had a lap-dance outside of work. Work makes things... difficult to give time to other things."

"Indeed, it does." Criminal empires don't rule themselves, you know. "Say, ever slept with that ordinary bloke of yours? Seems like he had a fancy for you."

"And if my answer was yes?" Sherlock replied, his voice low... predatory.

James' eyebrow twitched. And what if he said yes? Would it honestly make a difference in his life? No, it wouldn't. But that didn't stop HIS KOKORO FROM GOING DOKI DOKI.

"Then the answer is yes." He rolled his eyes.

"Well, then the answer is yes," Sherlock responded stretching his arms forward, they were feeling cramped.

Why... Why was he getting so upset over this? Sherlock's sexual life was his own business, and it had nothing to do with him. So why was he getting upset? He put those thoughts away and sighed dramatically.

"Bored~."

"Well, what do you want to do instead of talking? There's hardly anything else one can do when stuck in a traffic jam," Sherlock pointed out with sigh.

James was just about to reply with all sorts of things they could be doing, but was interrupted by the car taking a sharp turn, causing Jim to fall on top of Sherlock with an 'oomph'.

Sherlock's arms instantly wrapped around the tumbling man, to secure him, pulling him to his chest to ensure that his partner was now stable. His eyebrows drew together in anger as they turned another sharp corner, jostling them again, "A seat-belt, Jimmy, have you never _heard_ of one?"

"And for God sake's, Moran, where did you learn to drive?"

James shoved himself off Sherlock, looking just the slightest bit flustered. He quickly looked away, ignoring Sherlock's comment. "Yes, Moran. Care to explain that?"

A nervous laugh came from the man. "This is Vegas, sir. Half the people on this street are piss drunk. And it's already evening, so it seems people are rushing to the casinos."

The instant disappearance of warmth when Moriarty pulled away momentarily caused Sherlock to long for it back, but his mind cleared and he, very obviously, didn't know what he was thinking. What a ridiculous desire. Sherlock shook his head a little bit and blinked widely.

"Are you sure you're licensed, Sebastian?" Sherlock sniped.

"I've got an international license, and I _think_ I'm not breaking any laws yet." He slowed the car to a stop in front of a rather fancy looking building, opposite a... pimp house. Well, Vegas is Vegas. An attendant opened the door for Moriarty.

Sherlock followed, his lips drawn into a thin line of distaste, "I hope we're not here to kill anyone. I still have blood on me from the last time we did."

The attendant backed off, regardless of his duty. No way he's listening to this conversation.

James yawned and stretched his arms above his head. "Uh. not yet. I want to take a nap first."

"While you're at it, I'd like to wash the blood off my body. I don't usually mind bodily fluid, but after having sat in this for hours, I don't think I can stand it any longer," Sherlock hissed, not really paying attention to the way the words could be taken out of context.

And James took it in every way those sentences could even be taken. Every way. He blushed. "Well there's a bathroom in the room, you bloody fool."

He walked up to the counter, quickly taking his room keys and heading to their room.

It was on the top floor. It looked like it was the most expensive rooms in the place. Sherlock wasn't surprised. Being a consulting criminal had to have benefits.

The room was... lavish. Overdone is every way possible. In fact, it was outrageously rich that it bordered on gaudy. Sherlock barely gave it a glance over before going on a quick search for the shower.

Unfortunately, the only shower existed as an ensuite. Sherlock sighed.

"Will you be bothered if I have a shower while you sleep?" Sherlock asked, already unbuttoning his shirt. He didn't much care if Moriarty's answer was positive or negative.

The curly-headed man just really wanted to feel clean again. He had no idea he'd been feeling to filthy until Moriarty had landed on him in the car. Now, all he really wanted to do was scrub himself clean.

"Suit yourself." He rather _gracefully_ flopped onto his bed, not even bothering to take off his shoes. Moran followed after the two men, setting their luggage down in the lobby and locking the main door.

He sighed. Really, James was like an over-grown child sometimes. He walked over and took off said man's shoes, before pushing him under the covers.

He paused for a moment, before setting a new suit on the dresser. The one James was wearing now was filthy and crinkled. He set his watch alarm for three hours, before moving into the living room and turning on the telly.

The shower was hot and drilled into Sherlock's back. Using the soap, he scrubbed himself clean. The room was completely filled with steam when he was done. Feeling slightly light-headed, Sherlock pulled himself out of the shower and wrapped a towel about his waist and tucked the end in.

He approached the mirror and wiped away the condensation, staring into the half-reflection. He didn't really recognised the eyes staring back. They were... for lack of a better word, dead. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and turned from the mirror, reaching for the door-handle.

It was then he realised that he had no other clothes than the one's which were now resting upon the floor, muddy and bloody. Sherlock gave them a quick glance, but dismissed them. He'd rather walk around in the nude than put them on again.

And that was what he practically did, apart from the towel.

Pulling the shower door open, he strode into the main bedroom and it was then he realised the next hurdle. There was only a single bed. And Moriarty has splayed himself entirely over it.

"You selfish little man," Sherlock murmured under his breath.

His eyes fell onto the suit next to Jimmy's sleeping form, but after a second of analysing them, he knew that they were tailored only to fit James. Sherlock let out a exhausted sigh and ran his fingers through his wet hair.

Here he was dripping, almost naked, in a hotel room of a casino, with a man he once would've called his nemesis. Where had he gone wrong?

As he contemplated these things, his gaze lingered on Jimmy's face, which - as Sherlock had noticed before - was almost cherub-like in his sleep.

It was far too hot in here. He rolled over uncomfortably, shaking off his jacket and pants and tossing it on the floor. Much better.

His eyes opened just the slightest bit. His clothes were resting in a messy pile in front of... feet?

Sherlock watched Jimmy's movements, almost afraid to move to alert the man of his presence. The man let his eyes droop down and he rolled on his side, nuzzling a pillow. Sherlock allowed himself to breathe again.

At least there was room now. Creeping quietly to the edge of the bed, Sherlock eased himself down. His muscles instantly relaxed. The bed was entirely too comfortable. It felt as if the damn thing were increasing the gravity and sucking him towards it.

He was sorely tempted to let it, as well. His body ached, even if he hid this bit of information from Moriarty, and his head now throbbed with a head-ache induced by lack of proper rest. Sherlock lifted a hand and rubbed at his eyes.

A yawn escaped his mouth. Before he knew it, he was lying down on the bed, pulling the blanket over his body and closing his eyes. The towel slipping off his body, and sliding onto the floor, was of no consequence to his exhausted mind.

With one last coherent thought of, "I wonder where Moran is," Sherlock slipped off to the land of nod.

...

Sebastian sighed, turning off the telly. He got up and straightened the crinkles out of his pants. He walked over to James' room, knocking on the door softly, before entering. He smiled a bit, when he saw James' rather adorable sleepy face.

And then smile dropped when he saw a very naked looking Sherlock Holmes next to him.

He seriously wasn't paid enough for this. He flicked on the lights, enjoying the fact that Sherlock groaned and rolled over.

...

Sherlock felt the warmth of something flicker over his face, and slightly irritated - he reacted, it seemed to him, in an appropriate manner; he groaned. He was sleeping. He didn't care about what anyone else wanted.

A source of heat emanated towards him and he subconsciously rolled towards it. A slight smile of satisfaction played on his lips and he wrapped his arms around the heat-source.

_John_... Sherlock thought in a doze, rubbing his face affectionately against the warm object.

Unlike Sherlock, James woke up immediately. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, nuzzling the rather warm thing next to him. But then he remembered that he had gone to bed by himself. With no one else.

He practically screamed and shoved Sherlock out of bed, propelling himself off the other side as well. "Moran! Moran, by Jove, there is a naked man in my bed! Moran!"

He looked at his bodyguard, who only shook his head and sighed.

Sherlock limply rolled out of the bed. He still did not wake. The loss of the warmth was indeed a great loss, but he'd gone without it for a long time now and he could do so again.

It still did not stop a sense of loneliness invading his dreams, causing the man to cry in his sleep as he lay draped on the floor. He curled into a shivering naked ball and continued to sleep. He was tired, so tired.

James quickly scrambled to his feet and hid behind Sebastian. "Alright, Sherlock, wake up now."

Jim had the most confused look on his face. The naked man was Sherlock? The man who had apparently crept into his bed in the middle of the, stark naked, was _Sherlock? _

Well, this is surprising.

Sherlock let out a moan, but didn't stir.

Sebastian took off his shoe and threw at Sherlock's arm, hitting with deadly accuracy. "Wake up, you bloody git."

The shoe hit his arm and bounced away. Sherlock slept on.

"You've got to be kidding me..." Sebastian mumbled under his breath. Now this was just ridiculous. James took it upon himself to wake up the potential rapist.

"Sherlock Holmes, you wake up this instant!"

Sherlock briefly fluttered his eyes open long enough to recognise the blanket on the bed, drag it down on top of him and frown at Moriarty, "Sod off."

James fumed silently as Moran walked over and roughly pulled the man to a stand. "Get yourself together Sherlock, you've got business to attend."

Sherlock's eyes flickered open, and he let out a sigh, "If we must. Fetch me something to wear, 'ey, Moran?"

Moran did not like being ordered around, not one bit. But this man was Jim's guest, and that meant he had to be _nice._ Ew.

He calmly left the room, to fetch Sherlock a suit. James noted the little bit of anger from his subordinate, keeping that little tidbit of information for later. "Sherlock, I need to get dressed."

Sherlock blinked, rubbing at his eyes, "Fine, get dressed. I don't know why you need my permission for that."

James pursed his lips. "Well, get out of my room then."

"What, why?" Sherlock hissed, falling to the bed.

"Because I need to get_ naked."_

"By all means, go ahead! I'm not going to stop you," Sherlock replied, closing his eyes and letting his back thump against the bed.

Ugh, whatever. Sherlock was a lost cause anyway. James wasn't usually one to care for such things; hell, he often got Sebastian to undress, simply because he himself wasn't bothered.

However, undressing in front of Sherlock made him slightly uneasy... Well, let's put those thoughts away now.

He unbuttoned his shirt.

"What's taking Moran so damn long?"

"Dunno." Actually, he did, but that was unimportant. He hesitantly took off the rest of his clothes and moved towards the suit that had been laid out for him.

Sherlock moaned and sat up straight, his eyes flashing open, "James, I'm boooored."

James did not like the sound of that moan. Okay maybe he did.

Nonetheless... He sighed and fixed his jacket. "Get dressed." He said, as Sebastian came in with a suit. It was rather hard to find one in Sherlock's size, seeing as he wasn't as tall as Sebastian, but definitely not as short as Moriarty.

Sherlock smiled at Moran, as he grabbed at the suit, "Thank you, Sebastian."

Dropping the blanket, Sherlock proceeded to get dressed straight in front of the other men.

Sebastian blushed and quickly left the room. He was seriously not paid enough for this.

James... didn't really do anything. At all. Maybe he even stopped breathing. But come on, just _look_ at that ass.

Sherlock let out a yawn as he finished buttoning up his suit, "Are we ready to go?"


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock let out a yawn as he finished buttoning up his suit, "Are we ready to go?"

No response. At all.

The curly-headed man frowned ever so slightly and turned to look at Moriarty, "Are we ready to go?"

Sherlock's' eyes dropped to James' pants and he smirked, "You should probably do your zipper up first though."

James snapped out of thoughts, barely hiding a blush. "Ah, uh, yes." He did them quickly and turned away.

Sherlock wasn't entirely familiar with the world of relationships, but the looks that Moriarty kept shooting him weren't what he'd call business expressions. Unless the business one were part of was the AV industry. Or at least that was what Sherlock could only guess at.

He hadn't been entirely lying when he'd said there'd been a select few people he'd had relations with. The select few had been, in fact, a select one and it had been the only person who managed to work their way into Sherlock's mind. John. The only person that Sherlock would've ever willingly...

Sherlock swallowed back thoughts of a past he no longer had a claim on and he ran his fingers through his hair, meeting Jim's gaze, "Well, are we ready to go?"

"Yes, we are." He turned back, a small smirk tugging at his lips. Yes, he'd finally gotten his poker face back on, he didn't intend to take it off for a while.

"You lead, I follow," Sherlock replied, nodding in the direction of the door.

The words felt foreign on his lips and they stuck on his tongue as he spoke. He never expected to say those words. He was used to being in charge, all-knowing and used to understanding. _But things change_, Sherlock reprimanded himself, _And I should change with it. _

After the long sleep, Sherlock found his mind working correctly again. He began noting down details. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to have an active mind. His mind-palace still refused him entry to anything... related to things of the past, but it was no hindrance on gathering new information.

He wondered just how much he had truly missed whilst he'd been exhausted. Evidently, too much. Sherlock suppressed the need to face-palm himself and instead took in his surroundings in more depth. Had he been blind to the comings and goings of Moran? Surely not... but, he had.

How had he managed to lapse so far behind in being... well, a genius? Sherlock licked his bottom lip as he thought. _Was this perhaps a con of being a criminal? _So far, he'd only found pros, so maybe... It was possible. And he wasn't going to rule it out. There was so much he didn't know. And he was stumped that he'd almost forgotten that he liked finding things out.

James grinned and added a little skip to his step. "Off we go~." He left the room, Moran unlocking the main door for him. He pressed the button for the elevator and waited, patiently, humming a tune.

Now that he'd gotten his wits about him again, it was time to rethink the situation. As of now, Sherlock hadn't been TOO much of a bother. If things went well, he might even help them out. Not with in anything James couldn't do himself of course. As bright as Sherlock was, James would definitely not think the man higher than before. Just another... toy. Perhaps one that could challenge his intellect, but a toy nonetheless.

His thoughts drifted away from Sherlock, onto their next destination. Gambling was all fun and games until you actually lost some money. Not that that had ever happened to James, but it definitely was funny watching ordinary men yell and blame the unsuspecting men next to him.

The elevator came up with a little ding! and in stepped Moriarty.

Sherlock, lips twitching in irritation as he realised what he was doing, followed the man into the elevator. After a few seconds, the doors closed on their own accord, leaving Sherlock and James in silence for a long ride.

It was a good thing there were mirrors on the sides of the elevator, gifting Sherlock the ability to study Moriarty with deep scrutiny without being caught glaring at him. So, he stared. It was obvious that James had gotten enough sleep; he didn't look at all tired. In fact, he looked very bright for a criminal.

Even though Sherlock was sure that the man hadn't applied any perfume or deodorant, a scent coming from Jim hung in the air. It wasn't unpleasant, but Sherlock, for the death of him, couldn't identify it exactly. Curious.

The suit Moriarty wore was expensive, no doubt, as well as Sherlock's. Armani, it looked like. Sherlock didn't make a habit of standing out, but James obviously did. It made the ex-detective rather morose. As they stood in silence, Sherlock's mind wandered, bored with filing details about Jim.

He drifted into memories of countless other elevator rides. Some much less interesting, some much more. But most of them alone. Except for the ones with... Sherlock's mouth went dry and, despite himself, he grit his teeth.

John was old news. There was nothing more for him at home. Sherlock groaned mentally. He still thought of Baker Street as home. This would do no good. He would have to force himself to change further. Maybe he should-

"I'd like to volunteer my services for the next person we kill," Sherlock spoke, breaking the heavy silence, eyes still staring into the mirror. _Dead_, Sherlock reminded himself, _I'm dead. I have no heart. I don't want a heart. _

Jim looked at Sherlock, through the mirror, eyeing him up and down. Hmm, he didn't look he'd slept well at all, actually. He'd gotten dressed rather scruffily, and had bags under his eyes. He inwardly sighed. This just would do.

He turned to Sherlock, muttering about scruffiness and started 'tidying' him up a bit. He smoothened out the creases on his jacket, and oh, he got on his tippy toes just to fix Sherlock's hair. With his fingers. It was a rather good thing he still wasn't tall enough to look him eye to eye.

He gave him a broad grin. "Can't have you lookin' like a tramp, can we? And sure. Tonight is Moran's night off anyway."

James could only imagine just how seasons of 'Real Housewives' his bodyguard would watch tonight. He'd never really understood what he found so fascinating about American television, but of course, to each their own.

The elevator doors opened, and James stepped out first. The lobby was brightly lit, with glass chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. There were several rounded staircases to the sides, with busboys smiling at the bottom of each.

Moriarty's hand had taken him off guard and it took him awhile to regain his composure. The gesture was entirely too familiar and too accurately painful for him to react quickly. After a few moments to catch his breath, Sherlock followed James out, nodding at the busboys.

"I don't understand what you enjoy so much about rich places," Sherlock commented idly, as he pocketed his hands in his pants and strutted forward.

"It seems almost gaudish," he continued to say, "What are going to do today?"

"Oh well, we're going to Venezia. I've got business there." He calmly walked past the other guests, still humming a slight tune. The automatic doors opened, and he took a deep breath. It was a bit humid outside, and the street lights were far too bright.

He raised his hand into the air, and a taxi slowed to a stop in front of them.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at the taxi, gaze narrowing in on the driver who looked to be smiling... oddly. All at once, Sherlock knew something wrong was occurring. As the taxi came nearer, it's speed began to accelerate.

"Not again," Sherlock muttered under his breath as the vehicle sped towards them at a deathly speed.

The smell of rubber burning on asphalt filled the air and in less than the blink of the eye it was almost too close. Without taking a moment to think, Sherlock threw his arms out.

They would've been nothing more than bloody stains on the footpath if Sherlock had not dived at precisely the right time. The car screeched away into the distance. Sherlock grit his teeth together as he realised he was directly on top of Moriarty.

"More friends of yours?" Sherlock asked down to him.

"Probably." He blushed and shoved the taller man off of him. Several hotel security guards rushed over, talking too much and helping too little. Sweet fuck, this is why he hated giving Sebastian days off. Stupid television shows.

His head was hurting horribly - oh yes, perfect way to start the evening. Nonetheless, he got up and forced a calm smile onto his face. He turned to see that one of the guards had been kind enough to get a proper taxi for them.

"You're very popular," Sherlock smirked as the hotel assistants opened the car door for them.

Moriarty squeezed in, followed by Sherlock. There was silence again.

"To Venezia, please." He told the taxi driver awkwardly. Again, the awkward silence settled. This... was not how he had planned the evening. Nothing ever went according to plan if it meant involving Sherlock Holmes. Bastard.

The taxi driver looked at them in the rear view mirror. "You two are new round here, eh? Tell you what-" He gave them a broad grin, "I know this great place. Pretty sweet for a night out."

James would take any chance he got right now if that meant no awkwardness. This really wasn't a situation he knew how to deal with. "Sure."

"What," was Sherlock's deadpan reply as his gaze dropped to Moriarty's, "What?"

Was this man really that innocent? "Whore house, Sherlock. Whore house."

"I'm aware of what he was suggesting, James. I am still unaware of why you agreed we'd go," Sherlock responded, his lips slowly annunciating the sounds of his words.

"Because you've never fucked a woman, obviously."

In all honesty, it really was quite obvious. How was James supposed to teach Sherlock about anything if he didn't even know what proper sex was like? Besides, what was that saying again? Oh pish, he'd remember it later.

"Has it occurred to you that I DON'T want to?" Sherlock ground his teeth, his lips drawn into a thin line of frustration.

_Honestly. Honestly, this man... _Sherlock resisted the urge to hurt him in some way.

James clutched his heart dramatically. "Ah, such heterophobia simply will not do Sherlock!"

The cabbie snickered for a bit at that.

"I don't particularly care for fucking, not at all, regardless of gender, Jim," was Sherlock's restrained reply.

"Nonetheless, we're heading there anyway." If James had learned anything since the last time he'd been to a slut-house, it was that ladies spoke too much about things they'd heard.

"Fine, whatever, just don't expect me to appreciate this experience."

"Not at all, Sherly." He remained silent for the rest of the ride (though it was not very long).

"I don't like being told nothing. Why are we going to a whorehouse?" Sherlock asked, as the car stopped outside of what Sherlock could only guess was their destination.

"Information." He paid the cabbie, leaving a small tip, before heading into the familiar building. Sherlock asked far too many questions - but then again, that was a rather nice aspect of the man.

Sherlock sighed, "Fine."

He stepped inside, calmly walking over to the receptionist. The lobby was furnished luxuriously, taking on a more tropical theme. Most of the women walking around or serving customers were dressing in rather small gold bikinis, with outrageous head dresses on.

He gave the receptionist a smile. "I'd like to rent someone for me and my friend here tonight."

The lady, one of the few that weren't dressed scantily looked up at him. "Would you like men or women, sir?"

"Women, please. Specifically, I'd like Rosetta, Rosetta Vergara."

The lady smiled. "You're lucky she's free tonight. Now, Alice here will escort you up to Rosetta's room."

"Don't I get a say in all this?" Sherlock asked as they followed the extremely well-toned Alice up some stairs.

"Do you have anything to say?" Alice stopped in front of a door, before bowing her head and scurrying off. James raised an eyebrow at Sherlock and rested his hand on the knob.

"Yes," Sherlock narrowed his eyes in frustration at the two of them, "What exactly are we here to learn, Jim?"

"Oh, I'm just here to get some lovely bits of information. See the little lady in there," he nudged his head at the door, "she works for me. Does a bit of snooping. She's me' information broker of sorts."

"Ah," Sherlock nodded, finally giving in, "Well, what are we waiting for? Carry on!"

Jim gave a little grin and opened the door. Inside was a 'little' woman, dressed rather conservatively for such a place. She gave a frown, "You're five minutes late."

It seem that Jim had quite literally meant 'little lady'. She was a dwarf.

Sherlock didn't so much as bat an eyelash at her appearance, instead jutting his head in Moriarty's direction, signifying him to start the questioning.

James gave her a cheery smile. "Been a little bit busy. Black Lotus s' been on my tail for the past four months. Can't even get a break." He sits down on the bed and stretched his arms above his head.

Rosetta leaned over to the bedside drawer and pulled out a small USB. "Its got information about their latest standings around the world." She presses it into Jim's hand. "I heard their base in Afghanistan got destroyed by a bomb."

Sherlock remained impassive, but cocked his head slightly to the side, "Sounds like a bit of a problem, I'd say."

James slipped the device into his jacket. "Pleasure doing business with ya' miss." He gave her a little salute, and she gave a half-minded glare, before lighting a cigarette. "Now get yer' asses outta here before I have to call security."

James got up and opened the window sticking his head out.

"What, per se, are you doing?" Sherlock asked as he narrowed his eyes at the consulting criminal, "Please, don't tell me you want us to leave out that way."

Jim stuck his head back in. "In case you've been a little late in noticing, I'm an criminal that been here more than once. Figure it out, Sherly-boy."

Cautiously, Jim climbed out onto the window sill and held on to a drain pipe, carefully resting his feet on the top of a lower window.

"You have fun doing that. I think I'll just walk down the stairs," Sherlock stated as a matter of fact, heading out the door before there could be any response.

He was quickly surrounded by scantily clad women all vying for his attention. Barging his way through the thick of twirling bodies, he found the stairs and all but fled down them. Finally safe at the entrance, he strolled pass the counter and gave a quick nod to Alice who had returned to wait.

"My friend will be down in a second to pay," he forced a smile as he spoke.

Then he was out of the brothel and damn well happy to be. All those cloying bodies... Sherlock shivered and then looked up. There was Moriarty, clinging to the outside wall, resting precariously on the sill.

He cupped his hands around his mouth and called up, "Enjoying the view?"

"Oh yes, its actually quite nice!" He called back cheekily.

Very slowly, he started climbing down. Ah, wait, down put your foot there, it was a loose brick last time he checked. He managed to get down rather quickly, jumping down at the last five feet or so.

He fixed up his suit and brushed the dust of his sleeves. "Now, lets get going then. This place hates cause I never pay."

"I think they hate you on general principle," Sherlock replied, stalking after him.

He rolled his eyes, taking a random path as he strolled along.

"Where are we even going?" the curly-haired man frowned.

"Gambling. Ever played poker?"

"I don't spend my time throwing away money."

James tsked. "You didn't answer me' question Sherly."

"If I didn't know how to play poker, how would I know that you lose money?" Sherlock responded, "Aren't you meant to be intelligent?"

"You can lose money in other ways at a casino." James called over a cab.

"That may be true, but you specifically mentioned poker. Besides, is there any reason why we're doing this?" Sherlock asked, not expecting any actual clear answer.

"You thought I spend this much money to visit a whore abroad?" He scoffed. Sherlock was being awfully... _regular_, and somehow it made him angry. He wanted to walk with Sherlock, not a _regular_ bloke.

Sherlock sighed, "No. I'm asking because I haven't the foggiest why we need information about the government unless we're up against them, which I highly doubt, because your network is harder to find and get away from than the Bermuda triangle."

"Well, little Sherly," There was a bit of edge in his voice, "for the past three years, about say, 80% of my 'loyal followers' have moved onto other folks, and the remainder still don't trust me because of that stunt I pulled back in London."

He stopped walking and sighed. Guess no cab would stop for them tonight. "The governments not the only people I work against. Rebuilding a criminal empire from scratch is much harder than you'd think."

He wasn't expecting much from Sherlock, he really wasn't. Maybe a bit of company, half a joke here and there, but not much. But all he'd gotten was disappointment. Did he go wrong somewhere?

"Can I recommend a place?" Sherlock spoke into the silence that surrounded them as they walked. People seemed to dodge them.

"We've got a bit of time to waste before my next meeting." He looked at his watch, a little curious. They both knew Sherlock had never been here before, so where did he want to go?

"Where to?"

"The Bellagio," Sherlock almost appeared to smile back. Perhaps with the words there came pleasant memories, perhaps not.

That was on the other side of the city. Jim twitched, not bothered to hide his irritation. "We'll need a cabbie for that."

"Well then, get one," Sherlock replied, equally not hiding his annoyance.

James pouted angrily, rather like a child. "I tried to earlier, but it didn't stop for me."

"Head of the biggest criminal network in the world and he can't even hail a taxi," Sherlock sighed, twisting his gaze to the road beside him. He flicked out a hand and almost instantly a cab, seemingly from nowhere, slowed to a stop next to them.

Sherlock shot Jim a smug expression and slipped into the vehicle.

Now that was just cruel. Seems like God fancied taking a piss on him that evening, since it starting raining just before he got into the cab, leaving damp and Sherlock perfectly dry.

"The Bellagio, please." He said, completely disheartened.

Sherlock sat in silence. He had learned from previous car trips with Moriarty that he was likely to indulge the man with discussion he didn't even allow himself. So, he kept his quiet.

James sighed. "So what do you want at the Bellagio?"

"Nothing business," Sherlock responded, irritated by Jim's attempt of conversation.

A good enough answer. He turned around, frowning. What the hell was poking him in the back? If it was a used dildo like the last time he was suing-

It was an injection. He looked up at the driver, who was looking at him in the rear view mirror slyly.

A little trickle of blood slipped past his lips.

The silence was as eerie as anything that might've spouted from Jim's lips could've been. Curious about the lack of a follow up witty remark, Sherlock swapped his attention from their moving surroundings, to the man sitting less than a metre away.

The stark red against his lips was what Sherlock saw first. Blood. He would never forget the feel, the taste, the look of real blood. The ex-consulting detective's mind whirred. The only person who could've done this was the taxi driver. A brief thought crossed his mind, _What is it with taxi drivers these days? Are they all just murderers? _

And as they slowed to a stop at the red-light, Sherlock made his move. The curly-haired man was not an athlete, far from it - he considered himself more scholarly than anything more - but that did not stop him from flinging open the taxi door, scooping Moriarty into his arms and throwing them both out of the escape window.

He held onto Moriarty tightly as they tumbled from the vehicle, rolling against the tarmac road. Sherlock was sure he smelt the particular scent of cloth burning from the friction against the ground. He was relatively certain he was not coming out of this situation unscathed, but he was sure as hell better than Jim was looking.

Sherlock gave him a quick overlook as he regained his bearings, remembering which way was up and which way was down seemed to be the most important thing after all that painful rolling.

Moriarty's lips were now a stark contrast to the red dripping down them - they were ghastly white bordering on blue and his eyes had begun to droop. Sherlock resisted the urge to growl.

"It's becoming a habit, you understand. Me saving your life," Sherlock whispered, lifting the man up and raising one arm around his shoulder so he could allow Moriarty a shallow hobble to lessen the weight he put upon the ex-detective.

"I don't know why I do it," Sherlock continued, half-walking half-dragging Jimmy to a prospective hiding spot, "I think it may be left-overs from my previous partnership. Ha, previous. Makes it sound like it's over. Makes it sound like there's nothing to look back on. Hilarious. Past-tense is actually quite painful, you understand?"

He knew he was rambling, but he couldn't stop. Jim had began to cough up blood now and Sherlock was entirely sure the cabbie had stopped the taxi and had begun to follow them on foot. _A hiding spot first, then fix the criminal, then... _Sherlock, for once, couldn't think past the second step for worry begun gnawing at him more than he cared to remember or cared to compare with concern for another person.

"You do realise, you can't die?" Sherlock continued, looking about desperately, his eyes carefully examining each apartment, each door, each building until... finally! A suitable nondescript house and Sherlock could tell from all the small details (dust undisturbed, windowsill plants dead, "HOME SWEET HOME" mat slightly disheveled, curtains completely closed) that the home hadn't been inhabited for awhile, but had been left in a hurry.

_Perfect. _

All but trudging now, Sherlock kicked the mat away to reveal a spare key. _So predictable, _Sherlock almost groaned, but instead bent down, picked it up and slid it into the lock, twisted and then swung the door open with reckless abandon.

He gazed around. All furniture still in place.

_Brilliant. _

Carefully, he threw Moriarty onto the couch, laying him out to avoid himself swallowing his own tongue and choking on it, as well as to allow maximum unpressured breathing, before returning to the door and shutting it with a soft click. He slid the curtains apart a bit and squinted through. Cabbie was right outside, stalking the street, looking for them. Sherlock rolled his eyes at how stupid the general humanity was and went back to Moriarty's side.

"Alright, explain your symptoms, Jimmy," Sherlock murmured under his breath, testing the man's pulse as he spoke. Normal beat, but a bit weak. Sherlock frowned, placing the back of his hand against Jim's forehead and comparing the temperature to his own. Comparatively hotter, but then again Sherlock had always run a little colder than the average human.

"What are you feeling?" Sherlock repeated, continuing the same checks again and again, seeing if the results were similar or if there were a trend in their change. He was a scientist above all and there was nothing more reassuring than data when one is desperate and a scientist.

James could barely speak. His throat felt as if it collapsing in on itself. He made a strangled noise, attempting words, but only more blood spilled from his mouth, thick and heavy. He felt like gagging and puking.

His gut felt like it was on fire, churning and turning and holy hell, it burned. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will the pain away, but it just wouldn't go. He could feel knives ripping through his skin, even when he knew there weren't anyway.

He opened his eyes, just a bit, to see Sherlock's face. His eyes looked so worried; so strange. He can't remember if he's ever seen Sherlock worried. Just a bit of contempt filled his mind, but it was quickly replaced by pain. _Pain. Pain. _

Sherlock was worried about him, and not that stupid fucking bloke he used to be with. How long had he been waiting for the moment that Sherlock would start thinking about him and no one else? Past tense was painful. Past tense was making his mind cloud over. Quickly, he brought his hand up to his lips and bit.

The pain made him remember who he was, who he's with, where they were. It didn't work for long, but it did the trick. He grabbed Sherlock's arm, so weakly, his hand nearly fell off.

"_Water_." He begged.

Sherlock nodded, and scrambled to the sink, finding a cup (with the luck only Sherlock somehow managed to conjure) and filling it to the brim. He quickly returned to Moriarty's side.

"Here, water," he mumbled as he held the brim to Jim's lips and cradled the man's head with his other arm so that he wouldn't spill it everywhere, "I can't exactly assure you of it's quality, but it'll be better than nothing."

Couldn't give a damn about the 'quality' of the water, as long as it was cold and wet, he'd drink it. His throat felt cleared, if only for a few moments. Trickles of water dribbled down his chin and made a mess on his suit, but he couldn't care less. His hands fumbled clumsily, trying to find his phone. Perhaps Sebastian would be able to help.

He dropped his mobile, snarling half-heartedly. He suddenly felt very cold, and started shivering. None the less, he still attempted to reach his phone. There was no way he would die here, not in an abandoned apartment in an ugly suit.

Sherlock snatched the phone up and furrowed his brows, "You want to call Moran?"

Jim managed a nod through his shivering and almost in the blink of the eye, Sherlock was calling the sniper, the phone next to his ear. A few rings, then, "Hello?"

"Jim's been poisoned, we're two streets away from the Bellagio. Some street starting with S and the type of terrace. He's shivering, pulse has weakened, not sweating, a bit on the hot side, is extremely thirsty, looks to have internal convulsions. Do you recognise this?"

Silence, then: "Fuck, Sherlock, he'll be lucky to live another five minutes with that in his system. Keep him warm. I'll be there with help as soon as I can."

"Will do... And Moran?"

"Yes?"

"Hurry."

The line went dead and Sherlock returned his gaze to the shaking man on the couch. _Keep him warm_? What was the warmest thing Sherlock had on him? The answer was so obvious he could've slapped himself in the face.

Himself.

All the heat of humans the world over was more than the warmth that the entire sun created.

Stripping his suit off, he rolled Moriarty over a bit and squeezed beside him, wrapping his arms around the shivering criminal. Carefully, he threw his suit over the top of him, rubbing the man's back to generate friction warmth.

For a second, he almost stopped, trying to work out just why he was doing this. No answer popped up, nothing he could deeply think about - absolutely no reason beyond the repeating thought of "I cannot let this happen". So, he merely continued.

It took him a few minutes to realise that his bottom lip was trembling and he immediately stopped this ridiculous display of what couldn't possibly be emotion. He was just... just getting cold as well. That was it.

Jim couldn't think properly. He was starting to haze over, head lolling back, eyes drooping. His lips parted ever so slightly, little gasps of air slipping in and out. His nose has started bleeding, and the droplets slipped over the side of face.

He turned, unconsciously burying his head in Sherlock shoulder. Accidently, he bit his tongue, and his eyes shot open. He tried thinking again but it was too hard. He pressed himself harder against Sherlock. God, he was so warm.

The man had stopped convulsing as much, but it concerned Sherlock all the greater. It's always when one stops shivering that one has to start to worry. Shivering is the body's way of warming itself up. If it stops... it means that the body has given up or doesn't have enough strength to go on.

Sherlock leant back a bit, trying to get a better view of Jim's face, and oh god, oh god, he looked all too peaceful. Sherlock began to hyperventilate, his eyes wide, as he began to talk to the criminal in his embrace, "You better not go to sleep. I've had enough of your antics, Jim. Enough. If you go to sleep, I swear... I'll never talk to you again."

It was childish. It was immature. It was infantile. But it was the only thing he could think to say. The only thing which allowed him to bite back the dryness in his mouth, the stings behind his eyelids, the only words which allowed him to breathe.

Somehow, James heard those words. He heard Sherlock's frantic breathing. He felt his pulse. Weakly he opened his eyes, staring into Sherlock's own. "No."

He felt weak beyond comparison, but this, this was not something he could let slip by him. Sherlock, Sherlock - he was the only he could call equal. The only one he could talk to on equal manners. The only one that understood what it was like to stare out a window everyday, watching people. Watching them go on with their boring, boring lives, concerning themselves with boring things. The only one who understood what it meant to go out and become one of them. It was like dying, and everyday, Jim had died.

But then he found Sherlock. A strange man, but one he grew to cherish. His company was more than welcome in this dying world. Only with Sherlock did he ever feel alive, did he ever feel his pulse race, did he feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. And he felt it now, with his sight dimming, swirling and circling. The only thing he could even see properly was Sherlock's face.

Everything else turned strange. The walls disappeared, leaving purple trees and gum-ball fruits in their wake. He could see mountains, black, towering mountains, and yet he couldn't even see them at all. Sherlock's face was disappearing, disappearing behind a red sky, dripping its crimson rain on his skin.

He fell back, trapped in his own nightmares.

Moran kicking down the door was a blur to Sherlock. The doctor practically prying him off Jim's body was nothing to him. For awhile, Sherlock refused to be separated from him. Even as they lifted him onto the wheeled-bed and hoisted him in, the ex-consulting detective gripped tightly onto Moriarty's hand. He dared not ever admit it to himself, but he was terrified that if he let it go he'd never see the man again.

The private ambulance ride, even with alarms blaring, was absolutely silent to Sherlock, his mind concentrating on one thing and one thing only; the soft and barely existent pulse in the wrist of James' arm. Once he thought it stopped and for that second he realised he could not breathe, could not see, could not think, until the next beat came again.

They were at the private hospital bay in a matter of minutes, but to Sherlock they felt like centuries and he was almost certain that Jim was almost too far gone. Sherlock was not a man who felt emotion. He did not feel sentiment. He told himself he'd stop that. That was what this partnership was about. That was what he had told himself. What he still wanted to tell himself.

As he stared at the near motionless man, that they'd begun to wheel away with him, Sherlock knew it wasn't true. It had never been true. He knew what he'd been looking for the entire time. But he still didn't want to admit it to himself. It was too much of a raw thought, much too primitive for him to even suggest to himself. And yet, as they tried to tear Moriarty's hand from his and explained to him that they needed to perform immediate dialysis of his system, Sherlock might've torn the eyes out of the doctor's skull, refusing to let go.

He hissed and he swore, and he struggled and fought to stay by the criminal's side, but eventually - with the help of Moran and several other guards - they managed to break Sherlock's hold. As the heat of Jim disappeared from his palm, he watched as they quickly exited the room and left Sherlock on the floor, gazing at the space where Moriarty had been only seconds ago.

Sherlock had only cried twice in his life. But they say things come in threes. And thus they did come. For the first time in his life, Sherlock felt absolutely useless and helpless to give aid. If he were any other person, he might've prayed to God, but no - he was Sherlock. And Sherlock's did not pray. After a brief moment, he blinked away the tears and a new determined look formed in his eyes.

Something hard and cold. Shiver-worthy and chilling. Whoever had done this would pay.

Oh, would they pay.

...

Moran stared quietly at the man. A cold shiver ran down his spine, and sweat broke out on his forehead. Conversation. Conversation would break the horrible silence. He cleared his throat anxiously. "James was infected with a makeshift poison."

Yes, talking about a person dying is a good way to start a conversation.

"The doctor doesn't have a clue yet, but regarding his symptoms, it might a mixture of chemicals alcohol and methamphetamine. Taking any sort of drugs and alcohol at the same time is deadly." He looked at Sherlock, who still had the frightening look on his face.

"N-not that you hadn't already figured it out." The mixture being injected into his blood would have easily quickened the process, Sebastian thought with a grim frown.

Sherlock smiled. There was no warmth in that smile. No. Something so frozen and broken was what that smile conveyed. Something almost beyond fixing.

Sherlock had snapped. He'd lost someone close to him from his foolishness before, but this time. This time, he could do whatever he wanted. And people beyond himself and Moriarty no longer mattered. They didn't matter at all.

Flies. Bugs. Ants beneath his feet. And how he felt like setting their nests on fire.

But first, he'd need the right equipment. He focused on Moran and smiled, this time with a harsh intent, a glint in his eyes promising pain - oh so much pain - , "We're going to need to go shopping."

Moran had a strange feeling that he knew exactly what Sherlock meant. "I only have a suitcase here, but I've got a whole arsenal in New York. That's a four hour flight."

The black market for guns wasn't nearly as extensive here as it was in Brooklyn. Perhaps going there would be best.

"I don't need an arsenal. Just some... select items. What do you expect, Moran? I've torn apart so many of Jim's traps that I've come to be quite familiar with the best methods," Sherlock replied, entwining his fingers and placing them over his lips.

A glimmer of excitement shot through him. This feeling that he'd thought he'd lost. It was back. And it felt _great_.

Moran was speechless. And down right terrified. He opened his mouth to say something, but his jaw hung like an open fish', not a sound coming out.

...

James woke up. His eyes fluttered open and he exhaled softly. He knew what had happened. It took only a moment for the head ache to set in. Gods, where was his medicine? Where was Moran?

And more importantly, where was Sherlock?

...

Sherlock snuffed a sneeze, blinking his eyes. Why he felt such an irritation all of the sudden was beyond him, but he had no time to dwell on the fact. The trap was in place and everything had already come to the point of no return. Things were in motion that he no longer had fine control over, but he'd mapped everything out to perfection; the trap had a flawlessness that Sherlock had never been able to muster before he'd met Jim.

And the most irritating thing to the past-Sherlock was that it had only taken three days.

Three days of excruciating planning, plotting, manipulating and analysing. But, oh, would the fruits of his labour be worth it. The intense exhilaration that thrummed through his veins and coursed at a thousand thoughts per second in his mind was almost numbingly sweet.

He felt like a man in a desert who'd stumbled upon an oasis. Taking it slowly was more important. But he could feel the hammering of excitement inside his chest. The suspense made everything all the more... fun.

He watched the monitor, keeping a careful eye on the men approaching the ambush point. First, he had to allow for them to start tripping up. Get them to stop looking at things analytically and start panicking. Allow their own training to trick them.

The group of men snuck into the house and Sherlock watched. Oh, they thought there were so smart. They thought they'd found Moriarty while he was still sick and were coming in to finish the job. Good little soldiers just doing their jobs.

If Sherlock could, he'd would've reached through the screen and strangled them all right then and there. There was something writhing in the pit of the man's stomach. Something entirely new, but not altogether unwelcome.

Rage. Absolutely unrelenting anger.

He wasn't entirely sure about what, perhaps it was the audacity of his opponents, thinking they could steal something that belonged to him. Belonged to him? Sherlock did not follow where this train of thought was heading and returned his attention to the screen.

They'd finally broken through the first line of defense. The automatic metal lock door, which they had sliced right through with a water-pressure laser which the back end of the group took hold of and carried between them. Sherlock had to applaud them on their preparation thus far. But this was only the beginning.

He pressed the 'Ok' button on his cheap mobile, sending off an SMS to his co-conspirators waiting in the house. If you had blinked, you would've missed the importance of the few seconds that followed.

In little more than the time it took for the foremost men to take three steps, Sherlock's hired hitmen had taken out the back men and substituted themselves in flawlessly. The pressure-laser barely fell a centimetre once dropped from the hold of the former soldiers and caught again by their replacements. Sherlock didn't even try to reel in the grin that stretched over his lips. It was almost like he were a puppeteer and everyone else was merely a puppet.

The men at front carried on unknowing, but skittish and then the automatic doors starting sliding shut between the soldiers. Sherlock had pre-programmed the way in which they closed. First, the back men - his men - were cut off with the pressure-laser in hand, but one plant had hurried ahead and was with the front men.

The real soldiers had no chance of escape now. It gave Sherlock an inane sense of satisfaction that formed as goosebumps on his arms. And now the mind games. Sherlock's new favourite part. He pushed in his earphones and listened in to the hushed mutterings of the men and their panic, it was pretty bad quality, but at the very least he could make out what they were saying.

"What's going on? This was meant to be a simple snuff mission. Break in, execute and then leave," whispered Sherlock's single hired help with the acting conviction of a top-notch celebrity.

The other men gazed at him, shifty eyes darting about the room, before the very foremost man answered, "I told them this wouldn't go down so simply. They hired me for my expertise on M, but they didn't even listen. Should've never left home."

Hired-help nodded, but his eyes narrowed on one of the soldiers next to him. His brows furrowed and he gestured to the leader to talk to him on the side. The expert on M, followed him and, from what Sherlock could tell, raised an eyebrow.

"What is it?" the leader asked.

"I don't remember that man's face. Black hair, blue eyes. He wasn't with us when we came in," hissed the hired-help under his breath.

Sherlock watched, intrigued, wondering if everything would turn out well.

"I thought our numbers had increased," replied the leader before promptly raising his gun and shooting Sherlock's helper straight between the eyes. He didn't even cringe. The man's body fell to the floor with a thud. Sherlock didn't blink - he didn't have to pay that man anymore.

The other men began to become frantic, believing their leader had betrayed them, aiming at him, their laser targeting system forming a laser light show on his bulletproof vest. The leader almost looked to sigh. Sherlock was fascinated. He hadn't calculated this, but then again people were always extremely hard to predict. It didn't change the way he was going to continue.

The leader dropped his gun, letting it hang loosely on the strap over his shoulder, he placed his hands up in surrender in the air, "Wait a second, you don't believe that I'm working with M. For God's sake, he killed my-"

One of the front men was sniped in the head, blood exploding onto the walls of the room. Shots broke out. Three more men fell. Screams, cries. It was a blood-bath. Sherlock watched on, wondering who would live. He didn't really care that much. He just needed an informant. This entire thing had been just to entertain him and get a bit of the blood-lust he felt off his chest, before he began murdering random people on the street.

Sherlock blinked. He'd never thought of doing things like that until only a few days ago. He wondered where he'd went wrong... or maybe right. Definitions like that mattered little to him, they never meant much anyway, but now they meant even less. Sherlock returned his mind to the carnage of the screen before him.

The leader had drew his weapon again and was shooting left, right and centre trying to defend his own life. He killed more men that Sherlock's snipers did. This man was truly something. _Nerves of steel and a steady shot. Extremely acclimatized to violence_. Sherlock continued his analysis. The leader didn't even fire until he was sure he was in immediate danger. _Strong moral principle and definite extensive experience serving before this._

When everyone was breathing their last breath, the leader was checking his men, and - at times - ending their lives. Sherlock mused,_ Medical experience. Knows when a man is going to pull through and when he's a lost cause. _A strange feeling, not anger, began to stir in his gut. He frowned. Everything had went exactly as planned, but why was he feeling... like this?

And then he texted his men once more, telling them to disarm the leader and bring them to him.

It took only a few minutes. The leader took out four of his men. They dragged him, bloodied and bruised, pushed him to his knees and held the guns to his head. His helmet shattered to the floor - the only sound in the room.

Sherlock had his back to the leader, his chair facing the screens set up on the desk. He carefully watched as the last soldier in the room died. It gave him the smallest amount of glee. He let out a small chuckle, trying to calm the bubbles of dread forming in his stomach. And then he turned around.

"Oh," was the only word which slipped from his mouth as he felt every memory he'd bottle up suddenly come flooding back with more intensity than he thought was possible.

The leader peered up at him with a black eye and squinted through the light to the man who now held him captured. The whisper that fogged through his lips was no higher than a few decibels, the coarseness of his voice conveying disbelief in every single syllable, a sense of hope and desperation cloying to the man's questioning single word, "Sherlock?"

And then suddenly his vocabulary was back, along with his sense, but the pain - oh, please let the pain stop, please - was there humming in every single cell in his body, "I suppose to coin a phrase you're familiar with - this is a bit not good."

"Am I dead?" were the next few words the man said.

"No, but you're going to wish you were," Sherlock replied quietly, eyeing the man he had once - still? - no, don't think of that. Business. All business.

"You're alive?" he asked, always blind to the oblivious, the complete mood of absolute awe shining in his eyes.

"In a matter of speaking. But not legally. I think we're going to have to talk, about a few things," Sherlock continued, trying to not let his voice break, trying to not let this man tear away the frost he'd covered himself in.

Trying to not let John Watson back into his heart and his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

John swallowed dryly. What was he supposed to do? His orders said to kill. He had to kill. He needed to kill.

But not Sherlock. He'd watched that man go once. He couldn't watch it again. He couldn't stand by there again as his best friend, the one who made him feel the alive, the one who showed him everything wonderful and beautiful about world; he couldn't watch him die all over again.

He steeled his eyes, taking a deep breath. Perhaps he was already dead. Perhaps he'd gotten shot through the head by Moriarty's snipers and this man, this figment of his imagination, took Sherlock's form. It would only make sense. His brain, remembering his happiest life in his dying moments. Or perhaps this was just the Grim Reaper, torturing him for his sin. He watched Sherlock die and he didn't do a thing. He listened to all those people laugh and ridicule the man, his best friend and he didn't do a fucking thing.

He would play this game. Perhaps it was his last, but he would play this game with the reaper.

And he would win.

"Everyone, leave," Sherlock mentioned to the men in the room and they grumbled as they tied John's hand behind his back and shook him down, just in case.

Sherlock approached the doctor, standing but a metre away, taking in everything about the man, the look of betrayal now on the man's face. _He could never hide his emotions_, Sherlock thought, a twinge of memory snapping onto his lips as they twitched into a small smile, before they sunk in a frown, "John, what in the blazes are you doing in America?"

John didn't answer. John didn't say a word.

He took deep, shaky breaths, trying to calm himself. He could feel his pulse racing, pounding in his ears. Should he answer, or should he not? He couldn't tell, he couldn't tell a damn thing.

"John, I'm being serious. You're aware that you just tried to kill my new business partner?" Sherlock murmured, unsure how the blonde would take the news.

Business partner.

Business partner.

_Business partner._

For the second time in his life John started to hyperventilate. His throat felt like it was collapsing in on itself, and his chest grew tight. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe.

"John? John, are you okay?" Sherlock realised he was letting care slip into his voice before he could stop himself.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping, just hoping, that this was all just a bad dream, a hallucination, that would go away when he opened his eyes.

But when he opened them, all he saw was Sherlock's face, surrounding by a spinning ring of colours, swirling in and out of his vision.

"John?" and this time it wasn't just care, it was worry, oh-god, it was concern. His chest burned.

"Who are you?" The words came out a messed slur. His head throbbed in agony, and God, he just didn't why.

"It's Sherlock, your-" he stopped, unsure of how to describe himself in context, "Your friend."

"You're not Sherlock." He wasn't, he just wasn't. Sherlock died three years ago. Sherlock died a villain. Sherlock died unloved and unwanted by everyone but him. "You're not."

"Oh, yes, that makes sense, now doesn't it?" Sherlock replied sarcastically, "I'm dead. Alright. Now that that's all said and done, are _you_ okay, John?"

"Peachy." He glared. No, this wasn't Sherlock. The Sherlock he knew would have already given him some elaborate description of how he survived jumping off a building. Perhaps he was sleeping, knocked out by Moriarty's guards.

"There's no need for theatrics," Sherlock muttered, irritated by the doctor's reactions, "Why were you here to kill Jimmy anyway?"

John rolled his head back, taking a little satisfaction in the way he could hear the joints crack. He swallowed before he spoke, doing his best to hide his fear. "Never liked the bloke. So I found some people who'd let me kill him; with bigger, better weapons."

"John, you..." Sherlock was amiss for words, he paused and thought, then continued, "You don't sound like yourself."

The room was too cold for his liking. The air crept under his skin, under his clothes, like spiders. "You died, Sherlock. You died and never came back." _Until now,_ he added mentally.

And he looked up at Sherlock with tired eyes. And he looked old. He always did, for a man his age. But the years were starting to pile onto him, and his shoulders sagged and he looked much beyond his thirty eight years.

"I don't suppose you want to talk about it then," Sherlock replied, unable to look John in the eye.

That hurt, for some reason. _Look at me Sherlock. Look at me. _

"But I need answers. I left you as you were because I left you smiling with... with her, and now that I've moved on, I turn around and you're still right there behind me, even though I thought I had left you far behind," Sherlock realised he was babbling, he didn't care, "Why are you here, John? Just... just tell me that? It actually really is irritating to see you."

He didn't care that the irritation was the way his heart pounded in his ears, or the way memories of them flooded him. He didn't care that it made him both terribly afraid of everything returning to the way it was and also frighteningly excited by the prospect. But... he cast his mind back to James and coldness stunned him.

John had tried to hurt Jim. It was a fact. And it sat there in his mind, unflinching. Sherlock was unable to see past it and when he finally met John's eyes, there was nothing of the warmth he'd been struggling with only moments before.

It was the glare that Moran had cringed from. The heartless look of someone on the hunt for revenge.

"Tell me what you're doing here, in America precisely," Sherlock insisted this time, a steel tone in his voice.

The way his eyes had hardened scared him. It didn't matter how the man was in front of him this very moment. John had been right. Sherlock had died three years ago.

He thought for a moment about Mary, beautiful Mary. She was a lovely woman, really, and John enjoyed her company. Poor, poor Mary.

He swallowed nervously before speaking, all the steel gone from his voice. He trembled. "Moriarty. I'm here for Moriarty."

His voice got all shaky and the tears touched his eyes.

"John... but why? I can't comprehend why you'd leave behind your wife... your new life to chase down a man you thought dead," Sherlock replied, his tone softening again, broken by the watery look in the doctor's eyes.

"I never left my wife Sherlock." He'd have never parted with her, if he'd had the choice.

"She was taken from me."

Sherlock's reply was utter silence. The quiet anger inside him suddenly lit ablaze. It rivalled his rage at Jim's attempted murder. In fact... it was almost equal. He quelled the emotion, suddenly utterly confused. Hadn't he given up these... pathetic feelings? Hadn't he gone beyond these... infantile feelings of possession?

Sherlock ground his teeth together, both perturbed and confused by everything, "John, when you say she was taken... do you mean kidnapped or..." he let his sentence linger, waiting on the man's reply. He had a good guess of the answer, considering the doctor's actions.

He stayed silent. He just couldn't bring himself to say it. He hadn't even gone to her funeral.

He looked at Sherlock with sadness in his eyes.

"And you think that James... John, I have been with Moriarty since your wedding. I haven't taken my eyes off of him. He didn't do... this. He didn't take Mary's life!" Sherlock realised he was shouting, as if to convince himself as well as John.

Jim wouldn't have done this. There was no way. No reason. Sherlock had left John behind. He had. Sherlock shook his head to clear his thoughts, "Jim couldn't have done this, John. I swear."

"He's the criminal mastermind of the world Sherlock!" He was shouting. He was standing up and shouting at Sherlock. He was shouting at his friend, oh god he was shouting at his only friend.

And he couldn't stop.

"He's killed so many Sherlock! He's using you! Can't you see that!"

"Was," Sherlock muttered in his breath, his voice solidifying as he continued, "He _was _the criminal mastermind of the world. You think I spent three years of my life doing _nothing_? You honestly think I faked my death so I could do what?"

He spat, "Go frolicking in a dandelion meadow?! I spent over a thousand days trying to ensure that Moriarty's network came down."

Sherlock paused, his voice now close to a whisper, "I spent so many painful hours making sure whatever was left of his network would never be able to hurt yo- people I cared about."

And then the anger was back, meshed together with frustration and betrayal, "And you think I wouldn't _KNOW_ if Jim would've been able to kill Mary? He's been trying to NOT DIE, lately, John."

"He's been trying to make sure _you_ haven't killed him!" Sherlock was all but shrieking, unable to now process the mess that everything was, "Because you're so stupid and gullible and you believe everything anyone tells you!"

John screamed in frustration. He's _changed._ He's not weak. He knows when he's being fooled. He really does. Or at least, he tries to know. He's not sure of anything anymore.

Sherlock leaving him made him fragile.

Mary's death broke him.

He stood up as best as he could with his hands behind his back. He glared at Sherlock with a quiet, burning rage that seemed to burst from nowhere. Every word that spewed from his mouth only seemed to be like gasoline, thrown wildly over a pit of anger.

"And what have you been doing Sherlock? Here you are, saying you're stopping Moriarty, but then you're working with him! You say you know everything he's been doing, and yet you don't know a thing!

Sherlock laughed, he actually laughed, "I don't know a thing, says the man tied up to the one who could kill him with a snap of the finger. Yes, I could. Don't look at me like that, John. I left you. I left. LEFT. It's not my bloody fault you can't keep your loved ones safe."

"And I said I have been stopping Moriarty's network from hurting people I care about, not stopping Moriarty. What was I meant to do? Huh? Tell me if you know oh so much, John. I came back to find you getting fucking married. You couldn't even wait. You couldn't believe in me. And now you're saying that I don't know anything?"

He took a breath and rubbed at his forehead, "All I know, John, is that I came back for you and you weren't there. So I tried to let you be happy. And you're blaming me for something you couldn't do. Well, I'm sor-rrrry. I'm so very sorry that you're incompetent. I'm sorry you can't even keep your wife alive."

Sherlock was screaming, the sarcasm and poison dripping from his lips like honey, the hate and anger and heartbreak finally coming into the open. Oh, god, how he hated John for not waiting. How he hated him and still... and still... Sherlock wiped at the tears beading at his eyes, angry that he was starting to cry.

"So you have no right to judge my choices after you so obviously were done with being one of them," Sherlock finished, this time his voice wavered and he felt his bottom lip quiver.

John couldn't say a word. He opened his mouth and shut it again. What was there to say?

Sherlock had already said everything that had needed to be said.

The FBI, they... they had told him to kill himself rather than give away information. Not that John had much to give in the first place. He couldn't stand another second of this, this... torture. This torment. Watching Sherlock yell and scream at him was worth than death itself.

If only he'd still had his gun with him. He simply held his breathe and shut his eyes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Is this the silent treatment, John? Well, it's not going to work."

John didn't reply. There was no noise. And that was when Sherlock realised John wasn't breathing. The ex-consulting detective sighed. And then he groaned.

"Are you... are you actually trying to kill yourself by not breathing?"

No response, but his face was going red.

"I knew you were an idiot, I didn't think you were stupid as well," Sherlock continued, rubbing at his brows, now exasperated by John's actions.

"Well, if you're throwing this tantrum, I'm just going to have to wait until you begin to breathe again. Actually," he paused and spoke into his comm, "Come back in, knock the subject out and bring him to the treatment room."

The hired help entered the room. Sherlock smiled weakly at John, "Sweet dreams. I'll see you on the other side."

John couldn't help but let out his breathe as the 'help' very 'gently' knocked him unconscious.

Woopsie daisy.

...

His eyes fluttered open to the lights about him. He raised a hand to block the glare, and sat up. He yawned and sat up. White. Everything here was white. For a second, he panicked, thinking he was dead, but his eyes adjusted and everything came into view. He was in a hospital room, he could see that.

He stepped off the bed, on shaky legs, holding on to the wall for support. Gently tugging along the IV stand. Standing itself made him dizzy, and he had to stop several times and lean against the wall for support. His vision would blur often, and he would sometime see two of things, before things went back to normal.

He walked along the small hallway, before seeing a blurred figure appear around the corner. "M-m-Moran?" He stuttered out.

"Moriarty, are you trying to kill yourself?" Sherlock asked, exasperated. First John, now James. Was the world just endlessly tormenting him by killing of those he actually bothered learning the names of?

"Get back in your cot, Jimmy," Sherlock continued, nodding briefly at Moriarty's bed, "Besides, you have company."

His gaze drifted to the bed beside Moriarty's which he'd missed in his waking haze, "Look who I stumbled upon."

He leaned against Sherlock unconsciously as they wandered back into his room. James turned to look where Sherlock had pointed. His vision started still blurred, but he could make out another bed, one he hadn't seen before.

He stepped up to it curiously, so he could get a better look. If it hadn't been for Sherlock's voice, he wouldn't have recognized him. He stopped in front of the bed and squinted. Was that... John?

"Yes," Sherlock muttered, helping Moriarty back into bed, "Yes, it is."

He tried pushing Sherlock off weakly. "No... No sleep."

His vision kept blurring, turning darker and darker.

"No. Sleep," Sherlock insisted, pulling the blanket up over him.

There was something pathetically weak and vulnerable about Moriarty as he fell unconscious. It was different to the first two times that Sherlock had witnessed him sleep. This was uncontrolled and Jim had no choice in the matter.

Sherlock cast his gaze over at John who was unconscious as well, his lips slightly parted. He stood poised between the two, unable to decide whose side to sit next to.

So he dragged a chair directly into the middle of the room, equal distance from both, and sat, staring at his business partner and ex-business partner, wondering if he'd ever be able to divide his work from his emotions.

He'd thought he'd done it, until James had nearly died.

He'd thought he'd done it, until John had shown up.

And now, Sherlock was entirely sure he still had a heart, but was uncertain as to its uses. He had been the death of many a man the past few weeks. But that mattered little to him. He'd stopped caring about the little people.

Frustrated with his inability to control his own mind, he clenched his hands into fists and grit his teeth, idly keeping an eye on the two most important people left in his life. Both unaware of just what they meant to him. Both... both completely capable of breaking him apart.

John stirred slightly. The light was blinding, but it took just a moment to get used to it. He turned his head to see the figure sat beside him. "Sherlock?"

"Take your time, it was quite a bump to your head," he muttered, glaring at John sideways.

"Sh-sherlock?" He tried sitting, leaning unsteadily on the back of his hands. He could vaguely remember a nightmare of Sherlock being the devil and him poor soul.

And then he looked sideways and realized wasn't just a dream.

His eyes widened in shock and despair, his lips forming a silent 'no'.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Stop being so melodramatic, John, and keep quiet. There are other people in the room."

He jutted his head in Jim's direction.

He flopped back down, his head pounding with a headache he had just noticed. Go back to sleep John. Go back to sleep and wake up with Mary in your arms and a home to go back to.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but as much as he tried, all he could see were the bright swirls and colours.

"This might be a good time to talk," Sherlock practically sighed out, as unwilling as anyone else in his place would be to actually converse about this particular subject.

Namely his untidy emotions.

He didn't want to. He really didn't. But he sat up with a sigh and nodded his head. John swallowed nervously and cleared his throat. "How did all this... start?"

"I died," Sherlock replied quickly, tartly, and with a vaguely scathing tone, "And you gave up on me."

"Sherlock... please..." He didn't want hear this again. He looked away.

"Don't think this is easy for me, John, when have I ever wanted to discuss emotions?" Sherlock snapped, but sobered, "I started... well, I went back on the same path I had been on before. If it weren't for Jim, I'd probably not be standing here today."

John wasn't surprised, strangely. He wasn't sad or scared or anything but expectant of such an answer. He understood, of all the things. He'd been like that before Sherlock had come into his life, and when he'd left, he'd been so tempted to go back.

He nodded silently in agreement.

"It's your turn to _share_," the last word mincing from between his teeth with great difficulty. Feelings were not his division.

"Well. Things went to the way they were... before I met you."

And by that he meant walking through the hospital corridors with dark circles under his eyes from all the nights he spent waiting by his window, sinking back into depression.

"Then I met Molly."

It didn't take him long to fall in love with her. She was sweet, kind, and funny. She laughed when and gave him her love and he gave her his. She brought him back from the dead and taught him that life was still beautiful, even when Sherlock had taken those joys with him to the grave.

"We got hitched and you know the rest. "

"Didn't take you long to move on," Sherlock commented, bitterness in his voice.

He didn't reply to that. He sighed.

Sherlock remained silent, soaking in his frustration. There was a palpable tension between them, but Sherlock eventually broke it. A mutter under his breath, inaudible to the ex-doctor.

"So... where are we?" The room didn't really have any windows, so he couldn't really tell.

"If I told you I'd have to kill you," Sherlock hissed back.

John sighed again. He didn't want this. He didn't want any of this.

"You were hired by the FBI?" Sherlock hazarded a guess, trying to get away from talk of anything beyond the practicality of business.

He nodded. "They offered to hire, yes. They knew of my experience with Moriarty and put me on the job."

A mumble came from the other bed and Sherlock changed his attention to the man in question, "Go back to sleep."

John saw how quickly Sherlock looked to the other. He was already long gone, it seemed. He sighed, and lay down without a word. A single tear slid down his cheek as he shut his eyes.

...

James mumbled and turned over. "Moraaaan, turn off the lights."

"Shut up and sleep," Sherlock replied, irritated.

He didn't like being ordered around. He grumbled, but forced himself to sit up. His pride wouldn't have let him done otherwise. "Was' goin' on?"

"You're being stubborn," he responded, not meeting Jim's gaze, his eyes instead resting upon the other figure that also stubbornly refused to look at him.

He yawned and wiped the grit out of his eyes. When he opened them, things were blurring, and darker than he'd thought them to be at first. Ignoring that fact, he groggily turn to Sherlock, the dark figure, lying down on another bed. "Who's' 'sat?"

"Santa," Sherlock quipped, rolling his eyes, before snapping, "Who do you think?"

James glared at what he thought was Sherlock. There was no telling, with how blurry everything was. He turned his head to the figure, and lifted his feet off of the bed, shakily putting them on the floor.

And he stood.

"You're being more of an idiot than usual," Sherlock sighed.

He stumbled, landing on Sherlock roughly. It was a wonder that the chair didn't fall over. James was sprawled over the other's lap, his head hanging off the side, a throaty groan escaping his lips.

Yes, just what he needed. An unending train wreck of tomfoolery and pain.

Sherlock was speechless for a moment, the warmth of the man on top of him taking his breath away momentarily. As he regained control over himself, he felt a wave of tiredness overcome him. He'd not slept longer than a few hours at a time during this entire thing.

Something else crashed over him; gratitude. Fuck, he was so insanely thankful the three of them were still alive. Unable to control his own self for a second, his arms subconsciously wrapped around the man in his lap, righting James, but keeping him firmly pressed towards himself.

James widened his eyes, stuck in a state of shock. Oh, he was wide awake now. Very slowly, very hesitantly wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, pulling himself closer. He smelled like alcohol, strangely. Maybe his nose was acting up. He breathed a heavy sigh and buried himself in the other's shoulder.

This was nice, he decided.

Sherlock's eyes closed on their own accord, sinking down slowly, his breathing gradually becoming softer. He nuzzled Jim to get comfortable, reclining back and pulling James down with him.

He sighed contently, feeling as if he was melting into Sherlock. He looked up at him, after a moment, except, well, he couldn't look. Sherlock's face was there, he could see the pale creamy skin, and the dark of his hair, but it all blurred together at a line he couldn't see. Every passing second, it only seemed to get worse, dimmer almost.

He shut his eyes and buried his head in Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock leaned closer and a warm blackness descended over him. He decided he didn't care.

His nose. It was itchy. But he couldn't move his arm, damn Sherlock. He was twitching uncontrollably by this point, and the wool of Sherlock's scarf was giving the overwhelming desire to sneeze.

Sherlock began to snore.

He tried wriggling out, but Sherlock's grip was too strong. He shaking terribly, trying to hold back a sneeze, and tears were coming to his eyes.

The wriggling caused Sherlock to wrap his arms tighter around the object he was holding onto. A sort of subconscious desire to not let this thing he valued loose.

That's it. He couldn't hold back his desire any longer. This had gone for far too long, and it making him oh so uncomfortable. And so he sneezed on Sherlock's coat, coughing horrendously.

Sherlock wasn't even perturbed, if anything, he curled around the sneezing form of Moriarty, much like a cat.

"Oh my god..." He muttered. James took a deep breathe (or as deep as he could, what with his lungs being crushed) and pushed himself away from Sherlock, breaking free and falling back onto the floor with a loud yelp.

The noise snapped Sherlock from his doze, his eyes centring on the now fallen Moriarty, his gaze narrowing into thin slits, "What are you doing?"

He groaned, rubbing his sore bottom. He glared up at Sherlock, fumbling around a decent answer. "I... fell."

"I can see that. But what are you doing?" Sherlock asked again, his voice dry and tired.

"Getting up."

"Once you've done that, get back into bed," Sherlock ordered, his eyes glancing quickly over to John's sleeping form.

James averted his eyes and got back in bed wearily. All too aware that Sherlock knew exactly what happened and wasn't even trying to hide it. He yawned. "Bring in a doctor later."

"Nope."

He buried his head underneath his pillow without a word, noticing how his eyes weren't adjusting to the darkness at all.

Sherlock would call a doctor. He knew he would.

"So, John was working for them," Sherlock whispered, restrained anger and a lingering sadness.

...-

The light were off when he woke up. He blinked several times and sat up, looking around him. He looked to the digital clock next to him, but the glaring red digits were blurred together.

"John?"

He rubbed his eyes, getting rid of the tiredness. 2:30 am. He turned to the dark figure, barely visible in the darkness. "Sherlock?"

"You remember what happened, right?"

He sighed. "Vaguely."

"Good. Also, legally, you're dead," Sherlock stated, as if mentioning the weather.

"Fun." He rolled his eyes.

"You're welcome."

...

For all our loyal followers, I apologise, but this is the end. My fellow RP writer had to retire from our story, but if anyone would like to continue this with me, Lazarus-James, send me a message and I'll link you.

Thank you for sticking with us.


End file.
